Polemic and Literature Surrounding the French Wars of Religion 9781501513510, 9781501518034

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Polemic and Literature Surrounding the French Wars of Religion

Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Culture

LXVIII

Polemic and Literature Surrounding the French Wars of Religion Edited by Jeff Kendrick and Katherine S. Maynard

ISBN 978-1-5015-1803-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-1-5015-1351-0 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-1-5015-1342-8 ISSN 0085-6878 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940940 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Boston/Berlin Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck Cover image: Jacques Tortorel et Jean Jacques Perrissin, Le massacre fait à Tours au mois de juillet 1562. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France. www.degruyter.com

Acknowledgements This publication finds its roots in a 2015 conference entitled “Wars of Words, Words of War” held at the Center for Leadership and Ethics at Virginia Military Institute. Kathleen Bulger-Barnett, then Head of the Department of Modern Languages & Cultures at VMI, deserves recognition for her enthusiastic support of that initiative. We would also like to thank our institutions, Virginia Military Institute and Washington College, more broadly for their support of this publication. We received additional and invaluable help from the Newberry Library, the Bibliothèque nationale de France (including the Arsenal division), and the Bibliothèque de Genève. We are very lucky to work in sixteenth-century French studies, a discipline with a wealth of talented and generous colleagues. We extend our gratitude to our contributors and to others (too many to name here) who offered ideas, inspiration, and advice along the way. Vivent les seiziémistes! This volume would not have been possible without the effort and guidance of our wonderful editor, Erika Gaffney. Finally, we’d like to thank our families: Julia and the gang, and John, Franky, and Tula Boyd for their patience and support throughout this project.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-201

Contents Acknowledgements List of Figures

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Jeff Kendrick and Katherine S. Maynard Introduction. Fighting Words: Contextualizing Polemic in the French Wars of Religion 1 Christopher M. Flood 1 Forging Satire from Scripture: Biblical Models and Verbal Violence before the Wars of Religion 10 Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier 2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu: A Fight for France 28 Amy Graves Monroe 3 Skirmishes in the Margins: Polemic at the Threshold of the Text Jeff Kendrick 4 Reprimanding the King: Jean Bégat’s 1563 Remonstrances

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Brooke Di Lauro 5 A Martial Muse: Words of War in the Quest for French Domination of Literature 86 Kathleen Perry Long 6 Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques 101 Marcus Keller 7 The Paradox of Civil War in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Tragiques Ashley Voeks 8 Comme au monde à l’envers: Mapping Injustice in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s “Chambre dorée” 130

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Contents

Phillip John Usher 9 Atmoterrorism in the Humanist Anthropocene

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Katherine S. Maynard 10 Exporting Peace and Arming Vengeance in Lescarbot’s Histoire de la Nouvelle-France (1609) and La Défaite des Sauvages Armouchiquois (1607) 172 Bibliography

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List of Contributors

203

Polemic and Literature index

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List of Figures Figure 3.1

Title page for Théodore de Bèze, Histoire ecclesiastique des Eglises reformées au royaume de France (Jean Remy: Antwerp, 1580). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque de Genève 53 Figure 3.2 Title page for Jacques Severt, Antimartyrologe (Lyon: Simon Rigaud, 1622). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France 56 Figure 3.3 Title page for Louis Dorleans, Second advertissement des catholiques anglois (Guillaume Bichon: Paris, 1590). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France 58 Figure 3.4 Title page for John Calvin, Defensio sanae et orthodoxae doctrinae de servitute et liberatione humani arbitrii (Ioannem Gerardum: Geneva, 1543). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque de Genève 61 Figure 3.5 Title page for Jean Boucher, Apologie pour Jehan Chastel, Parisien. (N.p.: N.p., 1595). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France 63 Figure 9.1 Gas Alarm!, Loos, France, World War I, ca. 1915–ca.1918. Photo credit: HIP/Art Resource, NY 153 Figure 9.2 André Thevet, Cosmographie universelle (Pierre l’Huillier: Paris, 1575), p. 900. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France 158 Figure 9.3 Les Grands signes merveilleux (Michel Buffet: Paris, 1580), p. 159 Aiiiv. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France Figure 9.4 Virgil, L’Enéide traduite en vers françois: première partie, translated by Pierre Perrin and illustrated by Abraham Bosse (Pierre Moreau et veuve: 1648), p. 4. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France 162

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Jeff Kendrick and Katherine S. Maynard

Introduction. Fighting Words: Contextualizing Polemic in the French Wars of Religion In March 1560, a group of Protestant nobles attempted to kidnap the French king Francis II in order to protect him from the influence of the ultra-Catholic Guise family. The plot, known as the Amboise conspiracy, failed, and its main organizers were executed. This event, which served as a precursor to the series of conflicts between Catholics and Protestants now known as the French Wars of Religion (1562–1598), elicited the response of several writers.1 The poet Pierre de Ronsard reacted to the plot by writing an élégie dedicated his friend, the poet and Guise supporter, Guillaume des Autels. In the poem, Ronsard praises des Autels for recently having lent his pen to criticize the supporters of the conspiracy.2 Ronsard’s poem lauds des Autels’s participation in a textual war whose battlefield is the hearts and minds of the people: Car il fault desormais deffendre noz maisons, Non par le fer trenchant mais par vives raisons, Et courageusement noz ennemis abbatre Par les mesmes bastons dont il nous veullent battre. Ainsi que l’ennemy par livres a seduict Le peuple devoyé qui faucement le suit, Il fault en disputant par livres le confondre, Par livres l’assaillir, par livres luy respondre.3

Ronsard argues that France and the king can be sufficiently defended through writing – and that the king should engage des Autels and, we can assume, Ronsard himself, to be his defenders instead of going to war with his enemies. As Sara Barker has observed, in this passage, Ronsard supports the use of aggressive and persuasive words as weapons.4 Ronsard characterizes such words with violent terms: verbs such as battre and assaillir have definite military connotations, and the bastons and fer trenchant of the battlefield are transformed into livres. The lexicon of weaponry implicates all levels of society into the bloody and inky conflict: from the prince des poètes and his aristocratic dedicatee and readers to the (easily duped) peuple. In the elegy, then, instead of calling for an actual physical war in these troubled times, Ronsard uses his own violent words as a substitute for real war, as a way of resolving religious differences without actual bloodshed. His words of war thus function as https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-001

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a “simulacre de guerre,” an expression proposed by Jean Mesnard to describe polemical discourse.5 Ronsard’s poem ascribes another role to the printed text in this elegy when he relates how the conflicts he describes took root because written texts created dissenting communities of readers. Ronsard’s elegy indicates that reading and writing are the source of the current and growing conflict. As a group, the “peuple” have been seduced by the writings of the king’s Protestant enemies and have subsequently formed a community that ruptures the religious unity of the realm; des Autels and Ronsard can fight the effects of those writings with their own powerful reply, thus re-establishing national unity through shared religion. Printed matter is therefore capable of contributing to or even creating a group identity that coalesces around religious and political beliefs. And, as the future would reveal, such words ultimately encouraged the communal divisions that devolved into the armed conflicts of the Wars of Religion. In its focus on violent words and their effect on communities of readers, Ronsard’s elegy anticipates many of the concerns of this volume. The contributions here explore the relationship between the printed text and the wars on the battlefield. They address a series of questions: How did these texts create these conflicts, and how did the conflicts create the texts? How did writers participate in an unprecedented moment of religious conflict taking place in a textual and physical world? How did these texts form, sustain, and destroy communities of readers on both sides? To answer these questions, the contributions consider sixteenth-century texts whose functionality might classify them as polemic, above all in the sense that they adhere to Jesse Lander’s definition of polemic as a “social and cultural practice, a practice devoted to the constitution of particular communities.”6 However, this collection also challenges the traditional definition of what one might consider to be “polemic” respective of the time period. While contemporary critics often restrict the term “polemic” to pamphlets, libels, and broadsheets – works often considered to be temporal and poorly written – we argue that many kinds of writing function as polemic in the early modern period. The meaning of the word polémique, from the Greek word for war (“polemos”), first developed in French while these wars ravaged in the sixteenth century, and, indeed, early examples of the word do refer to contemporary theological and political controversies about religion.7 They do not, however, constitute a recognizable genre or category during the early modern period. For this reason, the volume considers polemic in a broader sense as “fighting words.” We agree with the recent work of Natalia Wawrzyniak who suggests that we should approach traditional polemical texts (pamphlets, libels, and broadsheets) from a literary perspective; at the same time, we propose that a wide range of texts – literary, judiciary, political, and paratextual – should be

Introduction

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approached as part of a larger category of polemic.8 Our choice of that word in the title of this volume thus embraces an opening up of the sense of the word “polemic” to focus more generally on manifestations of fighting words – words of war that take part, implicitly or explicitly, in the larger context of the Wars of Religion. The contributions in this volume provide different perspectives on the text as a way of “doing” war. “Fighting words” represent far more than a mere substitute for war: they are expressions of violence that can give rise to actual physical violence. Many of the contributions show how words could provoke armed conflict or silence and discredit those involved in the conflicts. Such words often aim to kill, sometimes inflicting more lasting harm than physical acts of aggression. As Shoshana Felman has observed: “le discours polémique est toujours, à un certain niveau, un discours sur la mort, de la mort, un discours sur l’acte de tuer.”9 However, as this volume demonstrates, fighting words can also seek to mitigate, respond to, or end violence as well. Not unlike the genre of polemic, then, what we are calling “fighting words” are, themselves, multifaceted. Some can be used to start or continue wars by calling for the destruction of the other side; others can call for the cessation of hostilities. Despite their different goals, all of the texts analyzed in this collection delineate various communities by drawing distinctions based on perceived religious differences. They tend to “assert more than they argue.”10 Sometimes these assertions are guised in political or poetic garb. At other times, they take the form of personal attacks. In terms of time, the texts under consideration here sometimes anticipate (looking forward to) or remember (looking back on) the Wars, or they consider the conflicts contemporaneously from both Catholic and Protestant sides of the disputes. They also assume diverse postures when it comes to the notion of identity: these works reflect what it means to be “French” or “Catholic” or not. But equally, they project an image of their authors and those against whom (or to whom) said authors write. Whether alienating enemies by defaming them directly or identifying their authors’ own communities through self-estrangement, as George Hoffman recently argued regarding Protestant satire, this volume asserts that, regardless of the form they take, these texts demarcate groups and should be included in our study of “polemic.”11 In his essay, “Forging Satire from Scripture: Biblical Models and Verbal Violence before the Wars of Religion,” Christopher M. Flood considers the issue of satire in polemical writings just before the outbreak of the Wars of Religion. He argues that satirical authors on both sides of the theological divide in the 1550s used Biblical imagery to cast their opponents and themselves in differing lights. In this way, the text of the Bible itself and the writings it inspired served

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as the battlefields of ideas in the decade before physical fighting broke out in the countryside. Not only does Flood analyze how the Bible uses satire to draw distinctions between groups of people, but he also shows how Protestant and Catholic writers expanded on Biblical models to affirm contemporary personal and communal self-perceptions. Taking for examples Théodore de Bèze’s Epistle of Master Benedict Passavant on the Protestant side and the anonymously published Catholic response entitled Passevent parisien respondent a Pasquin Rommain, Flood examines how minority groups used Biblicallybased satire to defend themselves while those who were doing the persecuting justified their actions through the same lens of scripture. Amy Graves Monroe’s contribution, “Skirmishes in the Margins,” illustrates the wartime development of the kind of polemic that Flood explores before the Wars. Focusing on the title pages of polemical texts, Graves Monroe demonstrates how paratextual elements contribute to the religious conflict to which the content of the texts speaks. Places of publication, for instance, can entice certain groups of readers to purchase a text based on their religious affiliation. Even the titles themselves can aim to attack from the very first words. Often, printers include scriptural references and quotes on the title page. Supporting what Flood notes in his contribution, title pages with Biblical citations clearly demarcate the lines between religious adversaries and authorize the continued use of violence against those who would oppose the “truth” the particular text promotes. Finally, authorial attribution also plays a role in strengthening the impact of a text by using pseudoanonymity to subtly manufacture the identity of the combatants in the textual wars. Conversely, Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier studies a poet who entered into polemical territory in a public and identifiable way when he considers one of the most famous examples of polemical poetry in sixteenth-century France, Pierre de Ronsard’s Discours sur les misères de ce temps. Ronsard adheres to a strict division between the polemic register and other forms of poetry; indeed, after the Discours, he rarely ventured into the realm of polemic again. Ronsard’s criticism of Protestants in the Discours, written during and immediately after the first War of Religion, spurred a series of reactions, and Morand-Métivier’s contribution focuses on the relationship between Ronsard and one of his most notorious respondents: the Protestant writer Antoine de Chandieu. He explores the war of words between these two figures as a verbal extension of the Wars of Religion, one that develops as an ad hominem attack. An analysis of this literary exchange reveals a truth behind Chandieu’s critiques of the Prince of Poets: even as he uses Ronsard’s own words to derail the message of his Discours, Chandieu’s imitation is also a form of admiration. By considering the literary exchange from this perspective, Morand-Métivier argues that the two authors share similar concerns

Introduction

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for France and its future in spite of their ultimately irreconcilable approaches to religious difference. While Morand-Métivier looks at Ronsard’s reaction to the First War of Religion from the perspective of a national poetics, Jeff Kendrick focuses on a local and legal response to the same war. Jean Bégat, a member of the parlement in Dijon, chose the remonstrance as his preferred mode of communication. In his Remonstrances, Bégat addressed the king directly to criticize the royal concessions to Protestants in early edicts of pacification. As Kendrick reminds us, as texts that were both legal and polemical, remonstrances demanded specific political action on the part of their addressees. Kendrick analyzes remonstrances that Bégat wrote in response to the Edicts of January (1562) and Amboise (1563), where the Dijonnais lawyer framed his criticism of the king as an expression of respect for royal power and authority, all the while sending a clear message that the royal approach to religious plurality was unacceptable. Placing Bégat’s critiques of the king within a larger context of the early Wars of Religion, Kendrick illustrates how Bégat used the genre of the remonstrance to reject the idea that France could exist as a realm with more than one religion. In this sense, although he composes at the same time as Ronsard, Bégat’s legal documents are more explicit and pragmatic than those of the poet with respect to the dangers of a religiously divided realm. If texts like Bégat’s Remonstrances addressed political issues regarding the Wars directly, other forms of literary works could send similar messages and guidance through analogy. Brooke Di Lauro’s chapter on the “Martial Muse” shifts our focus away from texts written exclusively to address the Wars of Religion and toward images of war in the works of Maurice Scève, Pierre de Ronsard, and Joachim Du Bellay. Di Lauro suggests that the bellicose imagery in the poetry of Scève and Ronsard inspires and responds to Du Bellay’s exhortation to cultural imperialism and appropriation – and traces the use of this imagery into writings about the civil wars. Scève’s Délie anticipates certain precepts laid out in Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse through its distinctively violent imagery that differentiates it from Petrarch’s Canzoniere. Similarly, Ronsard’s work captures and reflects the violence during the Wars of Religion. The Prince of Poets’s texts blur the lines between literature and polemic; Ronsard sees the literal fighting in the Wars of Religion and his own engagement in the textual conflict as simultaneously (re)defining and defending French literature and national identity. As perhaps one of the most well-known, controversial, and enduring examples of polemic literature to emerge from the Wars of Religion, Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques serves as the basis of discussion in the next three contributions to this volume. Les Tragiques, although a long poem, regularly

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defies the classification of epic, and often embraces tragedy, the genre indicated by its title. Kathleen Perry Long’s essay on Les Tragiques serves to complicate distinctions between polemic and literature. Aubigné’s epic is both beautifully lyrical and jarringly argumentative. For Long, these disjunctions call attention to the fact that the poem is both a rejection of the epic genre it ostensibly represents and a repudiation of the violence that it portrays with exquisite realism. Literature in the new context forged by the horrors of the Wars of Religion must reflect those horrors without neglecting to cultivate a certain style. Focusing her attention on Aubigné’s depiction of the 1562 massacre at Tours in both his historical account of the Wars, the Histoire universelle, and his poem Les Tragiques, Long considers how changes in style result in vastly different renderings of the same historical facts. One seeks to present them in a matter-of-fact way, while the other provokes and horrifies the reader with its sheer awfulness – inserting polemic into his masterpiece. As he does this, Aubigné challenges contemporary notions of appropriate literary style and transforms language in a new and powerful way. Marcus Keller considers Les Tragiques as, above all, a work about civil war. His contribution focuses less on the religious nature of the civil wars that ravage France at the end of the sixteenth century, and more on the internal nature of the wars, the guerre intestine. Like Long, he studies the tragic, rather than epic, nature of this poem of war. He demonstrates the ways in which Aubigné leverages a metaphorical and allegorical register to illustrate the particularly devastating effects that this war had on the French realm in these years. Yet, at the same time, Keller underlines an essential irony to Aubigné’s writing about this particularly destructive war, in which all participants are losers: this form of war gave birth to an impressive amount of complex literary activity. For Ashley Voeks, Agrippa d’Aubigné’s “Chambre dorée” provides a means for dealing with the upside-down world created by the violent struggles that characterized the Wars of Religion and their aftermath. By mapping instances of injustice and chronicling victims, Aubigné’s text provides one way of navigating the new social landscape of the author and the persecuted minority group for which he claims to speak. Beginning in Paris, “La Chambre dorée” gradually expands its reader’s awareness of and sensitivity to the perceived injustice that dominated royal courts and to the corruption that extended throughout France and even beyond the kingdom’s borders. Voeks argues that the architectural structures described and personified in Aubigné’s work permit readers to visualize injustice as a living, breathing monstrosity. Moving from architectural analysis to a discussion of geography, Aubigné, from his unabashedly sectarian vision of a Protestant past and future, suggests this same injustice is capable of infecting and attacking the

Introduction

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entire world if left unchecked. In this way, a work of art is at once literature and polemic – the line between the two being difficult to designate. The final two essays consider more traditional iterations of epic – the poetic genre that takes war as its primarily subject – to connect them to issues relevant to contemporary warfare. In “Atmoterroism in the Humanist Anthropocene,” Philip John Usher focuses his attention on early modern iterations of atmoterroism. Challenging recent assumptions that biological, chemical, and other forms of environmental warfare are modern inventions, Usher develops the idea that premodern versions of such bellicose aggression can help us think about climate chaos in our own time. Usher unpacks early modern works by André Thevet and Pierre de Ronsard to support his thesis. Three texts by Thevet demonstrate the workings of attacks on the atmosphere by divine Providence: God makes “being” impossible through earthquakes, storms, and various natural disasters that destroy humankind’s ability to exist. Depending on one’s religious affiliation such phenomena were interpreted differently as God’s judgment on or approval of various acts of human aggression. Turning next to Ronsard’s La Franciade, Usher demonstrates how pagan gods transform weather into weapons in a way that prefigures warfare in a time of climate change and disruption of ecosystems. If the fighting words studied here are both at the origin of armed conflict and the shattering of communities, as Natalia Wawrzyniak notes, even the most violent polemic can be said, at some level, to be seeking an end to the conflict, even if that end is a violent one.12 Thus, polemical texts of the Wars of Religion also suggest ways to move forward or ways to keep the memory of the wars alive. As a coda to these explorations of warring words, Katherine Maynard’s contribution considers the role of epic to contemplate and reframe religious conflicts in the years following the Wars of Religion. She studies the works of the Vervinois author, poet, and explorer Marc Lescarbot, whose travels to New France served as inspiration for his travel narratives and his epic poem. She argues that Lescarbot’s own adherence to the legislation of forgetting of the Edict of Nantes plays a significant role in his approach to the Amerindians he encounters in the New World. In his Histoire de la Nouvelle-France, Lescarbot suggests that, because of their own success in forgetting past offences, the French are exemplary peacemakers; they are thus well positioned to help the Amerindians move away from their own vindictive practices and toward a forgiving, Christian model. However, Lescarbot’s epic poem reveals the problematic influence of the French on the Amerindian populations they claim to save; his epic uncovers the inescapable and destructive effect of French trade and technology, above all, in terms of the weapons of war that amplify, instead of cure, Amerindian vengeance and violence.

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Modern historians such as Luc Racaut and Tatiana Debbagi Baranova have demonstrated that polemical texts represent important historical documents that contribute to our understanding of this critical time period in French history.13 These writings shaped the ways in which the Wars were ultimately understood by those who experienced them and, of course, by those who study them now. The early modern documents considered in this volume serve as evidence of the power of language, literary and polemical, to construct ideological frameworks and to form communal identities. The polemical texts taken up in the following pages do not simply comment on or react to the contemporary political and religious turmoil surrounding their composition. They are part of the battle: deliberately designed, perfected, and marshaled to engage the enemy. They illustrate Felman’s observation that “la polémique est un acte, et non seulement un discours.”14 Sometimes, these acts backfire, and those attacked use the same weapons meant to destroy them to counterattack. At other times, the texts seem to fight against themselves, creating victims of friendly fire. More often than not, their aim is to clearly delineate opposing ideological camps by characterizing one community and pitting it against another, and in this respect, they are generally successful. Seeking to shape contemporary and future “history,” these documents – through prose, verse, paratexts, and judicial responses to royal edicts – create and embody narratives that will influence not only their immediate communities but those for years to come as well. To use the language of Hayden White from his study of nineteenth-century historiography, these narratives explain what the different groups are by representing them.15 Language has the power to mold our perception of reality and even our perception of our place in that reality. From these perceptions flow actions: the actions that perpetuated a culture of violence throughout the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in France. Furthermore, they skew our modern retrospective of what actually happened during this contentious period. Our neat groupings of texts and ideologies become troubled when, as Kathleen Long suggests, “the events of history themselves are born of narrative.”16

Endnotes 1. 2. 3.

Throughout this volume, these wars will be referred to interchangeably as the French Wars of Religion or the French Civil Wars. Earlier the same year, des Autels wrote the “Harangue au peuple français contre la rebellion.” “For from now on, we must defend our homes not with iron that slices but with quickened reason and courageously beat back our enemies with the same weapons with which they desire to attack us. Since the enemy has used books to seduce their depraved, false followers, we must use books to confound them, books to launch our assault against

Introduction

4.

5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

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them, books to answer their claims.” Pierre de Ronsard, Elegie à des Autels 15–22, in Discours, ed. Yvonne Bellenger (Paris: Flammarion, 2000), p. 53. Translation ours. Sara Barker, “‘D’une plume de fer sur un paper d’acier:’ Nationalism and War in the Poetry of the French Wars of Religion,” International Journal of the Sociology of Language 220 (2013), p. 161. Jean Mesnard, “Conclusion,” in Traditions polémiques, ed. The Centre V.L. Saulnier (Paris: École normale supérieure de jeunes filles, 1984), pp. 127–29. Jesse M. Lander, Inventing Polemic: Religion, Print, and Literary Culture in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 35. The word’s first known use in the English language was in 1626 (https://www.merriamwebster.com/dictionary/polemic). The first attested use of the word in modern French is in Blaisede Vigenère’s translation of Philostratus in 1578, where it referred to one of many possible types of songs played on a flute (http://www.cnrtl.fr/etymologie/polémique). One of the word’s earliest uses in the French language appears in Jean Benedicti’s defense of Catholicism La somme des pechés, which first appeared in 1584. See Jean Benedicti, La Somme des pechez et le remede d’iceux (Paris: Arnold Sittart, 1587), p. 425. In a telling fashion, the passage in question relates to contemporary debates about the Eucharist, with the Catholic Benedicti dismissing objections raised by Protestants as “polémiques,” disputes in which he does not care to take part. Another early example of the word polémique in French comes from an author featured several times in this collection, Agrippa d’Aubigné, who qualifies his own works as “polemique” on two different occasions. The first appears in the preface of Les Tragiques when the Larron Promethée describes the contents of his theft of his master’s writing; the theft includes “polemiques” (Les Tragiques, ed. Jean-Raymond Fanlo [Paris: Honoré Champion, 2003 and 2006], p. 15). In addition, when Aubigné laments that his enemies have been buying up his “livres polemiques” in order to silence him by throwing such books to the fire (Œuvres complètes, ed. Eugène Réaume and F. de Cassaude, vol. 1 [Paris: Lemerre, 1873–1877], p. 383). Natalia Wawrzyniak, Lamentation et polémique au temps des guerres de Religion (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2017), pp. 13–16. Shoshana Felman, “Le discours polémique,” Cahiers de l’Association internationale des études françaises 31 (1979), p. 187. Almut Suerbaum, George Southcombe, and Benjamin Thompson, “Introduction,” in Polemic: Language as Violence in Medieval and Early Modern Discourse, ed. Suerbaum, Southcombe, and Thompson (New York: Routledge, 2015), p. 6. George Hoffman, Reforming French Culture: Satire, Spiritual Alienation, and Connection to Strangers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), p. 7. Wawrzyniak, Lamentation et polémique, p. 12. See Luc Racaut, Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), and Tatiana Debbagi Baranova, À coup de libelles: Une culture politique au temps des Guerres de Religion (1562–1588) (Geneva: Droz, 2012). Felman, “Discours polémique,” p. 182. Emphasis in the original. Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972), p. 2. Kathleen Long, “Fathers and Sons: Paternity, Memory, and Community in Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Histoire universelle,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-Century France, eds. David P. LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2015), p. 96.

Christopher M. Flood

1 Forging Satire from Scripture: Biblical Models and Verbal Violence before the Wars of Religion “They come against us with only sword and fire. . . but we, we battle armed with only a sword, which is to say the Word of God.”1

Introduction “Satire,” Gilbert Highet wrote dismissively in his seminal study of the genre, “is the literary equivalent of a bucket of tar and a sack of feathers.”2 Though satirists can, at times, get swept up in a certain brutishness, their art is more commonly characterized by erudition and precision – as Dryden famously qualified it in his Discourse of Satire, the fine stroke that “separates the Head from the Body, and leaves it standing in its place.”3 Even at its coarsest and most indiscriminately violent, however, satire offers a uniquely broad and candid look into the society of the individuals producing it. Amending Highet’s vivid, if limited, metaphor, it could be said that the careful reader of satire can discover not only the intended victims, but also what heated the cauldron, who stirred the boiling tar, and how the feathers were selected. In no context are these unique perspectives more valuable than in Reformation-era France and Geneva, where, before massacres and wars, an unprecedented preponderance of satirical literature typified the intensifying conflict between Protestants and Catholics. Among the most intriguing and revealing aspects of French Reformationera satire is the manner in which theologically opposed authors drew upon their shared, albeit disputed, primary religious text, the Bible. The Bible was a textual battleground in doctrinal disputes as polemical authors on both sides invoked scriptural authority while drawing from its almost inexhaustible stock of condemnatory language and violent imagery. Alongside those expected borrowings, some authors adopted a typological approach, adapting biblical narratives to imbue their current circumstances with a validating sense of sacred precedent and legitimize emergent militancy. While this rhetorical strategy has been recognized and studied in other genres, where it enabled authors to add nuance to factional self-representations and trajectory to mounting tensions, it has been largely overlooked in satire.4 Satire offers unique insights into the https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-002

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culture that created it, but the additional perspectives to be drawn from a study of carefully interpolated biblical parallels offer a more complete understanding of the cultivated self-perceptions that those parallels were meant to represent. This understanding, in turn, will give a more intelligible form to the verbal violence that paved the way for carnage and civil war. This study will focus on how the biblical models adopted by satirical authors simultaneously reflected and influenced factional self-perceptions. More specifically, I will argue that the choice of biblical models, in itself, offers insights into the divergent circumstances of the opposing sides, including their capacity for armed conflict and their desired public perception. To this end, I will consider two prominent examples from the decade leading up to the outbreak of physical hostilities: the 1553 Epistola Magistri Benedicti Passavantii, in which Théodore de Bèze takes David and the coalescing kingdom of Israel as a model for Calvinists; and the 1556 Passevent parisien respondent à Pasquin, an anonymous response to Bèze’s satirical epistle modeled on the story of Judith. Before considering those texts, however, it will be useful to discuss the complex and perhaps unexpected relationship between satire, scripture, and early modern Christian society in France.

Satire, Scripture, and Sixteenth-Century Christian Factionalism Satire, at its most fundamental level, is based in the notion that language can alter social realities. Anthropological approaches locate satire’s beginnings in humanity’s basic impulse to impose order on a chaotic and dangerous world; in ancient times this was manifested in ritualistic chants aimed at repelling evil influences.5 As societies evolved, so too did this impulse, its manifestations, and its targets: where malevolent supernatural forces would have been the focus of early rituals, later expressions reshaped the social group by targeting individuals or practices perceived as dangerous, exposing and suppressing or expelling them. In classical Greece, this evolving tradition engendered the mocking invective of Greek Old Comedy, as practiced by Aristophanes, and Cynic philosopher Menippus’s eponymous satirical form. Passing to Rome, it gave rise to the poetic form of literary satire focused on social criticism, as displayed in the works of authors like Lucilius, Horace, and Juvenal. As Rome was replaced by Christendom, it was primarily this Roman tradition that informed medieval concepts of satire. Refracted as it was through the prism of complex cultural and social changes, the satirical tradition translated into a general

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spirit manifested in a variety of medieval forms, among them farce, sottie, roman, and fabliau. With the eventual rise of Renaissance humanism and consequent revival of classical culture, scholars recombined these various practices and traditions into a new, overarching concept of satire still largely subordinated to the Roman concept. Though the methods, forms, and focus changed throughout this long evolution, the essential motivation remained the same: exposing perceived wrongs in the pursuit of correction, condemnation, or expulsion – and all of it underscored by a belief that the right words, used properly, can change realities. This is why Joachim Du Bellay called satire an “œuvre industrieux” (painstaking labor) whose purpose, he argues while promoting Horace as a model, is to “taxer modestement les vices de [son] temps.”6 Inspired by similar perspectives and motives, the authors of the Bible likewise attributed a performative power to words. Throughout the Old and New Testaments, simple imperatives like “let there be,” “see,” or “come forth” are sufficient to create the earth, restore sight, and raise the dead. In opposition to these cases stand numerous examples of the destructive potential of words. A common biblical metaphor characterizes words as weapons: for example, the Psalmist imagines his enemies whetting their tongues like swords, and Paul describes the word of God as “more piercing than any two-edged sword.”7 While biblical instances of creation and healing depend as much on the special status of the speaker as on the words themselves, anyone can do harm with words. This is why the author of the New Testament book of James warns his reader, describing the tongue as “a fire, a world of iniquity” and “an unquiet evil, full of deadly poison.”8 This destructive power attributed to words in the Bible is not limited to spoken communications. The Old Testament book of Numbers, for example, contains a passage instructing a priest to write down the curses heaped upon a suspected adulteress by her husband, after which he is to run “bitter waters” through the written text and give it to the woman to drink; if guilty, it is promised that her womb will then swell and her thighs rot, rendering her barren and undesirable.9 This vivid image of written curses being ingested – even if indirectly – and subsequently having a physical effect on the victim gives powerful witness to the perceived efficacy of words in the biblical context. The power of words, both creative and destructive, was still keenly felt in the Christian context of early modern France, where it influenced the public and official receptions of satire. Looking back at the French Wars of Religion and writing shortly after the assassination of Henri IV, Nicolas Pasquier observed of religious speech in his day: “The ability of a preacher to speak well is an attractive and valuable gift of nature which, augmented and cultivated by extensive use and study, provides clarity and beauty to the fair conceptions of

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his mind.. . . But, if he decides to abuse the sweetness of his language, there is no more terrible plague on a Kingdom than this well-spoken preacher. . .his tongue becomes a weapon of violence on which depends the life or death of those for whom and against whom he uses it.”10 Though Pasquier is describing the violent culmination of the war of words, it is easy to imagine how the public would have been wary of the aggressive language associated with satire’s criticism – particularly among the ruling classes that so frequently furnished its targets. Nevertheless, Pascal Debailly contends that Renaissance princes were open to being “warned with satire.”11 Sara Beam likewise shows that the French monarchy enjoyed a complex relationship to satirical farce, embracing it when the topic and perspective aligned with royal designs, suppressing it when contrary.12 Religious authorities, however, were less tolerant. This led Christian authors to try to carve out a space for satire in Christian society. The early humanist printer Josse Badius, as Debailly points out, justified satire by arguing that its moral qualities resemble those of Christian preaching.13 Antónia Szabari likewise points to prominent early modern authors like Du Bellay and Erasmus, who strived “to reconcile classical satire with Christian morality by promoting the kind of satire that has a high moral function. . .whose aim is to correct the vices, not to attack persons.”14 Whether a result of these efforts or merely the seemingly inexorable progress of the satirical spirit, satire emerged as the principal literary weapon of engaged authors in the prelude to the Wars of Religion, though not simply for its superficially destructive possibilities. In his study of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Anglo-Irish satire, Fredric L. Bogel asserts that the primary function of satire is the creation of difference – which is to say, the illusion of distinction between the satirist and the object of attack.15 Assuming the satirist’s ultimate goal is to critique, mock, or even expel some undesirable element from society, the satirist must draw artificial boundaries to distinguish himself and, by extension, his audience from the target. He must, as Bogel conceives it, mask similarities and contiguities, thereby giving an internal conflict the appearance of an external one – transforming an us into an us and them.16 In sixteenth-century France and Geneva, this presented a potential solution to an urgent problem: that of distinguishing Catholics from Protestants and vice versa. Belonging to the same society, even if different faiths, members of these emerging factions shared a common language and cultural heritage that made them largely indistinguishable. Satire produced by both sides, particularly before the open hostilities of the war, reveals a clear preoccupation with this dilemma. This is where satire, both generally and specifically in the examples to be considered, again aligns with scripture in an intriguing way that illuminates how the two forms of discourse merge in this context.

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A significant portion of the Old Testament is devoted to marking the boundaries between God’s people and their neighbors (i.e., enemies). Where natural differences are lacking, artificial ones are created in the form of dialects, expected behaviors, styles of dress, dietary prohibitions, and so forth. Over the course of the Old Testament, the singular humanity represented in Eden is first divided by Babel’s confounded languages, then by Abraham’s covenant and Moses’s law, and eventually by the borders of a divinely established kingdom. For theologically-engaged, Reformation-era authors, these familiar biblical references both legitimized and bolstered their efforts at dividing a singular people by drawing boundaries where none existed naturally. Though writing in the 1550s, before confessional tensions spilled over into the open hostilities of civil war, the authors of the two satirical texts examined below drew on biblical war narratives that depict God’s chosen people besieged by an impious foreign enemy: the stories of David and Judith, respectively. While these comparisons may have exaggerated their actual circumstances, they permitted the authors to posit stark divisions and self-affirming analogies that underscored their own pertinence with a sense of inevitability and divine imperative. Drawing legitimizing analogies between biblical models and their current circumstances, these satirists then freely and effectively forged Christian satires that merged the inherent, differentiating functions of satire and scripture in an effort to linguistically identify, condemn, and expel undesirable elements from a would-be sanctified society.

Théodore de Bèze: A Calvinist David Lauded as much for his brilliantly malicious wit and rhetorical prowess as for his refined poetic voice and sophisticated theological thought, Théodore de Bèze was viewed by his contemporaries as the great, if perhaps unexpected, champion of Calvinism.17 Today, however, his polemical fervor and, even more so, his brilliant satirical attacks are overshadowed by his ecclesiastical status as the translator of the Psalms and as Calvin’s successor at the head of French Protestantism. To be fair, responsibility for this oversight largely resides with Bèze himself for having published the majority of his satirical works anonymously. Whether he did this to preserve the dignity of his position in the coalescing Calvinist hierarchy or simply to dissociate his spiritual works from his brutal and, at times, vulgar satirical ones, this inclination for anonymity recalls the celebrated humility of the biblical personage with whom he is generally associated and whose story provided a model for Bèze’s

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polemical persona: poet-cum-giant-slayer David.18 With his anonymous satires, Bèze becomes a literary giant-killer, slinging words like stones at a modern Israel’s outsized enemies before quietly returning to his place in Calvin’s retinue. A humanist scholar, poet, and theologian, Bèze embodied the merging of theology and philology that characterized the developing Protestant movement. Bèze’s introduction to both humanism and Reformed theology came in his youth as a student of Greek under Melchior Wolmar, a renowned humanist scholar and associate of Martin Luther’s theological collaborator, Philip Melanchthon. Intensely drawn to literature, the young Bèze developed a particular fondness for Latin authors like Catullus and Martial, whose influence on his writings is evident.19 In spite of Wolmar’s active, if quiet, proselytizing, Bèze, who was living comfortably off the revenue of inherited benefices, was understandably slower to accept the new faith than his fellow pupil, the older John Calvin. In the intervening years Bèze devoted himself to humanist poetry, through which he developed close relationships with future members of the Pléiade: Jacques Peletier du Mans, Joachim Du Bellay, and Pierre de Ronsard. These youthful friendships would evolve into bitter rivalries following Bèze’s conversion, particularly with Ronsard, who considered Bèze his only worthy poetic foe.20 It was during this time that Bèze established a reputation as a poet with his 1548 collection of Latin poetry entitled Juvenilia; replete with youthful exuberance and sensuality, not to mention an unmistakable influence of classical – that is, pagan – authors, it provided ample material for future attacks on his pious reputation. Finally embracing Protestantism after a severe illness that he believed to be a sign from God, Bèze fled to Geneva with the wife he had secretly married, where they were welcomed by his old friend Calvin. The need for employment took Bèze to Lausanne, where he was appointed professor of Greek at that city’s academy, but it was not long before Calvin drew him more fully into the Protestant cause, charging him with completing Clément Marot’s metrical translation of the Psalms. It is significant to note, as his biographer Alain Dufour emphasizes, that Calvin first recruited Bèze as a poet, not as a theologian or pastor.21 Thus, the bulk of his early contributions to Calvinism were literary. In addition to translating the Psalms, which marked the beginning of what would be his lifelong identification with David, Bèze took on the unofficial role of principal polemicist and defender of the new faith. One of his earliest works in this capacity was a 1549 response to an attack on Calvin by Johannes Cochlaeus, the German Catholic humanist known for his invectives against Luther. Bèze’s retort took the form of a short pamphlet written in Latin, his Brevis et utilis zographia Ioannis Cochleae, that Dufour describes as a “joyous farce.”22 Sophisticated in satirical style, the humor of this pamphlet is

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occasionally vulgar (including scatological borrowings from Catullus) but consistently clever.23 While this work offers glimpses of his satirical genius, its full breadth was only realized in his Passavant. Published anonymously in 1553 under the unwieldy title The Epistle of Master Benedict Passavant in Response to the Commission Given Him by Doctor Pierre Lizet, Former President of the Parlement of Paris, Now Abbot of Saint Victor of the Walls, Bèze’s biting attack was an immense success.24 Reprinted no fewer than nine times before the end of the century, it garnered praise from both sides of the theological divide and solidified his reputation as a satirist.25 Though the authorship of other anonymously published texts sometimes attributed to Bèze remains in dispute, there is no doubt regarding the Passavant; Calvin himself identified Bèze as the author.26 Occupying some sixty-eight octavo pages in the original version, the Passavant is written in a macaronic Latin, intentionally infused with grammatical errors to mock the poor Latin of Catholic clergymen. Later editions were expanded by the addition of a preface and the Complainte de Messire Pierre Liset sur le trespas de son feu Nez, but the first edition lacked any such paratexts that might have undermined the intricate satirical fiction constructed through Bèze’s use of the epistolary format. As the full title announces, the text takes the form of a letter from Master Benedict Passavant to his patron, Pierre Lizet, reporting on the clandestine assignment entrusted to him. Dispatched by Lizet, a dogged persecutor of the Reformers and former president of the Parlement of Paris, Passavant has gone to Geneva to assess the reception of Lizet’s latest anti-Reform work. It is clear from the outset that Passavant – living up to the pun of his name “pas savant” (not smart) – has been entrusted with a mission well beyond his capabilities. Having arrived in Geneva, he attempts to win the “heretics’” confidence with a sort of painfully transparent, incompetent pandering: “I just came from Paris where I saw a pitiable sight,” he announces to the first Genevois he meets, “They burn saintly men like bundles of twigs.”27 Buffoonishly supposing that he has won his interlocutor’s confidence, Passavant abruptly and awkwardly steers the reported conversation to his master: “The only thing anyone is talking about in Paris these days is Monsieur Lizet.. . .He has written a terrible book against the pseudo-evangelistic heresy: so terrible, in fact, that they say we heretics haven’t yet responded because we cannot.”28 Blatantly trying to goad his listeners, Passavant argues that, without an adequate response, Lizet will have entirely destroyed the church of God, “devastating more in one day than [the Reformers] would have built in a thousand years.”29 At this final hyperbole, his Calvinist interlocutors laughingly reply: “Are you talking about Monsieur the Former President? Now there’s a character! Tell me, how is Monsieur His Nose? Still crimson? Still pocked and mottled?”30 With these mocking questions, Bèze

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inaugurates the two running jokes that will enliven an otherwise aggressive critique: Lizet’s shameful dismissal from Parlement and his red, rotting nose, presumably the result of syphilis and excessive drinking. More than simple derision, however, these repeated jokes subtly set up the biblical imagery that will affirm Bèze’s scripturally-based personal and communal self-perceptions. Taking obvious pleasure in Lizet’s fall from prominence, Bèze unfailingly refers to his enemy with variations on the title Monsieur the Former President, frequently adding a reference to his current, considerably less distinguished position as the abbot of Saint Victor, a lowly monastery in the suburbs of Paris – and, by happy coincidence, the location of the absurd library described in Rabelais’s Pantagruel.31 Bèze clearly insists upon Lizet’s former status as a means of humiliating him, but simultaneously, and perhaps counterintuitively, as a means of aggrandizing him, thereby magnifying Bèze’s imminent victory. There is little pleasure and even less glory in a victory over an insignificant enemy. So Bèze conscientiously resurrects the former Lizet, recreating a fearsome Catholic giant from a has-been rabble-rouser: Lizet again becomes the persecutor who had hounded and slaughtered Reformers – and, it should be noted, personally signed three arrest warrants against Bèze.32 More important than any personal satisfaction Bèze may have sought by scorning Lizet, however, is this process of aggrandizement that will give him a victory over a fearsome giant who embodies the theological lapses and excesses of his enemies: a Catholic Goliath. This connection between Bèze, his satire, and the biblical story of David would seem tenuous if not for a clear, substantial reference to Israel’s champion and the Philistine giant in the form of a carefully reformulated nearquotation. The author of the book of First Kings recounts that David, as he advanced toward Goliath, reproached the arrogant giant, responding to his cursings and threats with devout confidence: “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, which thou hast defied.”33 Conspicuously imitating David’s bold response, Bèze declares: “They come against us with only sword and fire. . .but we, we battle armed only with a sword, which is to say the Word of God.”34 In this reformulation, Bèze makes three significant changes to David’s words that resonate with the inherent, distinguishing functions of both satire and scripture.35 The first two of Bèze’s alterations to David’s words, though merely grammatical, give explicit form to the self-perception he is trying to cultivate among Calvinist readers and signal the existence of the boundaries he is working to create. Where David directly addresses Goliath in the second person singular, “thou,” Bèze describes the Calvinists’ enemies in the third person plural,

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“they.” Assuming that his intended reader was Calvinist, this implicitly establishes a community of author and reader juxtaposed against the “they” of the enemy. This is immediately affirmed as Bèze shifts from the Bible’s singular first-person pronouns to plurals: I/me becomes we/us. With this change Bèze invites his community of readers to stand with him in David’s place. The biblical giant slayer was never just a character with whom Bèze personally identified; rather, David was a cornerstone of Bèze’s religious thought – he wrote a number of meditations on the Psalms – and the model he recommended to all, particularly in a political context.36 With these grammatical changes, Bèze posits David as an exemplar and a communal identity: Calvinists essentially become an army of Davids standing against an intimidating “they,” represented by the aggrandized Lizet. Though sufficient to propose opposing communities, these two changes do not define and distinguish them. That comes with Bèze’s third change to the biblical passage. Just as the biblical story contrasts the arrogant, heavily armed and armored Goliath with humble, essentially unarmed David, Bèze distinguishes between the violence of the enemy’s attacks and the more restrained response of his coreligionists. “They” attack with “sword and fire,” but Calvinists wield only “the Word.” The word of God is their only weapon, not out of lack, but because they need no other. It is a striking statement of faith in a time when Reformers were attacked, arrested, and executed with increasing regularity, but, more importantly, this is the distinction that Bèze draws between God’s chosen people and their enemy. Where the intermixing of culturally similar French Calvinists and Catholics prevented easy differentiation, the manner in which individuals engaged their theological foes would serve to distinguish them. This is not to say that French Protestants were in actuality pacifists – far from it!37 Rather, this points to the self-image that Bèze is conscientiously working to construct and the resolutely faithful character that he claims for Calvinists – which he underscores with recurring jokes about the sad state of Lizet’s nose. Through incessant repetition within the Old Testament context that he has established, Bèze turns Lizet’s decaying nose into a sign of both divine condemnation and divine protection.38 Facing the armed enemy with only the word of God, Bèze implies both that God will defend the Calvinists and that the enemy’s violence will be its own undoing – just as Goliath was decapitated with his own sword. It is clear that Lizet’s debauchery and drunkenness have caused his misfortune, but there is something more to the imagery. Referenced in both the Old Testament and the satirical poetry of Martial, a common punishment for adultery in ancient times permitted a cuckolded husband to sever the nose of his unfaithful wife and of her lover.39 This served to mark the faithless perpetrators throughout their lives and inhibit future relationships. In the case of Abbot

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Pierre Lizet, the impending loss of his decaying nose signaled infidelity to God. Thus, each time that Passavant’s Calvinist interlocutors comment on the color or condition of Lizet’s nose (asking whether it has fallen off, whether it can stand a tweak, etc.) they are, in fact, asking whether God’s judgment has been enacted. Comical as they might be, these comments affirm an expectation of divine condemnation that extends beyond Lizet to implicate all Catholics, just as Goliath’s defeat in singular combat translated to defeat for his army. With Lizet’s punishment, Calvinists would be vindicated and Catholics vanquished. By adopting David as model, Bèze constructs community and communal identity in a way that acknowledges the precarious circumstances of French Protestants – hopelessly outnumbered and, therefore, at a terrible military disadvantage against the aggressive Catholic majority – and recasts them as both a sign of divine approbation and an opportunity for faith. As Bèze divides French society into a distinguishable us and them, he integrates the beleaguered Calvinists into a divinely protected community of faithful Davids, relying on the word of God in the face of menacing adversaries and physical violence. This was substantially different from the Catholic perspective posited in direct response to Bèze’s Passavant.

Le Passevent parisien, or a Catholic Judith Published anonymously in Lyon in 1556, about three years after Bèze’s Passavant, the Passevent parisien respondent a Pasquin Rommain lacks the wit and literary sophistication of the Passavant. Nonetheless, the anonymous author makes illuminating uses of biblical references that manifest an unexpectedly nuanced perspective on the conflict, albeit with a contrasting outlook on the imminent violence. The identity of the anonymous author has long been disputed. Some have attributed the text to Antoine Cathelan, a defrocked Catholic priest who had joined the Protestants in Switzerland, only to be shamefully sent away from the academy in Lausanne – by Bèze himself – for, among other things, his inadequate Latin.40 While this might explain the personal animosity that the author demonstrates toward Bèze, Cathelan’s generally recognized deficiencies likely preclude him as the author of this flawed but intriguing text. A more likely candidate is cantankerous Catholic priest and prolific pamphleteer Artus Désiré, though there are a number of factors that would seem to disqualify him as well. Not only was Désiré a well-established author by this time, but he was also uncommonly strategic in his use of print. A shameless self-promoter and, as he

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was characterized in another satirical work, affamé (which is to say “greedy” or “grasping”), Désiré reedited, retitled, reconfigured, and republished his works at a rate that would shock even the most audacious modern textbook publisher.41 In short, publishing a work anonymously would have been out of character. Nevertheless, he does claim the Passevent parisien in the prologue to his 1558 Regretz, complainctes et lamentations d’une damoiselle and is named as the author of the text in another satirical work of the time, La Comédie du pape malade et tirant à la fin.42 The general tone and rhetoric of the work also point to Désiré, who shared a profound and enduring personal animosity with Bèze. Regardless of authorship, this commonly dismissed text merits closer consideration, both for the role it played and for the insights it can offer into Catholic perceptions of the broader conflict. Written as an open response to Bèze’s Passavant, the Passevent parisien similarly exhibits both humanist and biblical influences, though less successfully and to a different end. The bulk of the text takes the form of a pasquinade, a popular humanist form of satirical dialogue featuring the famed statue in Rome called Pasquin.43 The other participant is Benedict Passevent, a redeemed variation on Bèze’s buffoonish character. The author insistently draws distinctions between the two versions, beginning with the subtle change to his name: Passavant becomes Passevent, the a’s changing to e’s, thus nullifying and countering Bèze’s insulting pun. Szabari explains that the reconfigured name points to the character’s “superhuman swiftness,” which, she elaborates, turns him into “the allegory for coarse rumor” and indicates the author’s understanding of evolving print culture and the value of humor – the name can also be read as “pass wind.”44 To further emphasize the distinction, the character explicitly distances himself from the Passavant by identifying Bèze as its real author: “Mais sus tout je te prie ne penser, ny estimer de moy, que je sois celuy Passevent, qui ha escript contre monsieur Liset. . .car ç’a esté un nommé Thadee Beze.”45 As in Bèze’s Passavant, the character has just returned from Geneva, though in this case he went of his volition, not on a clandestine mission at another’s behest. He explains his motivation in an epistolary prologue addressed to Pasquin: “Si les bestes sans raison cherchent se secourir les unes aux autres. . .que doit faire l’homme, qui est faict & formé creature raisonnable, s’il voit quelque chose qui soit en prejudice & danger contre son prochain?”46 It was genuine concern for his fellow man, he claims, that took him to Geneva. Good, simple people are being exiled and burned at the stake, he further laments, while not even one of “leurs venerables prescheurs, & paillards” would so much as touch a finger to the flame in defense of their faith.47 This is the first significant social division the author draws: separating the common adherents of the new faith from its leadership – victims and perpetrators respectively.

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This immediate insistence on distinction raises the question of differentiation, which the author explicitly addresses in the opening pages – an indication of its centrality to the work. Commenting on similarities and differences between the two religions, Passevent laments to his interlocutor: “Touchãt les habillemens, les predicans & ceux qui y pretendent, sont vestus comme noz procureurs & advocatz sauf le bonnet quarré. . .Et tous les autres sont vestus comme noz marchans.”48 The Pasquin then asks how to distinguish them, to which Passevent responds: “Ilz ne prient, ny ieusnent ny font aucunes œuvres meritoires non plus que chiens & bestes enragees, mais disent & preschèt que Jesuchrist a tout satisfaict pour nous, & qu’il est venu pour les pecheurs, & non pas pour les justes.”49 In the absence of other more easily discernible markers, the author seems to resign himself to subtler differences in behavior and theology. These, however, will be better defined as his biblical analogy develops. Transitioning in the final lines of the prologue from indictments of Calvinist leaders to the biblical authority he will draw upon, the author lists the specific passages that he will use “de mettre tous ses abominables & detestables, vivans sans Loy, en fin & ruyne, avecques l’aide de Dieu.”50 Alongside this list of expected biblical references – with which he proposes to refute the sola fide doctrine, defend transubstantiation and the Roman Catholic clergy, and liken Calvinist leaders to the scribes and Pharisees who rejected and murdered Jesus – he introduces the biblical framework that will inform the whole of the text: he will take as his model “la bonne et saincte Judith” (good and saintly Judith).51 This identification of Passevent with Judith is restated and emphasized in the opening of the dialogue as Pasquin says to his friend, “Je pense & tiens pour asseuré que le mesme Dieu qui delivra la bonne Judith, & son Eglise d’Israel par sa main: il t’a assisté & delivré de plusieurs entreprinses ou trahisons contre toy dressees par telz infideles & ennemys à Dieu, & par consequent aux hommes.”52 To understand how the author integrates and builds on this narrative, it will be helpful to briefly review Judith’s story as recounted in her eponymous, Apocryphal book.53 The story begins with Nebuchadnezzar’s aggressive campaign to conquer and subdue neighboring kingdoms, a campaign overseen by his most feared general, Holofernes. When the Assyrian armies come to besiege the Israelite city of Bethulia, the civic and spiritual leaders of the city resign themselves to surrender if God does not rescue them within five days; one citizen, however, the chaste widow Judith, takes it upon herself to save her people.54 Praying for guidance and protection, she leaves the city and enters the Assyrian camp, feigning that she has come to assist Holofernes in his conquest.55 Taken by Judith’s beauty, Holofernes permits her to remain in the camp and invites her to dine with him, but, as the great general lies unconscious after an evening of

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drunken revelry, Judith recognizes her opportunity and decapitates him with his own sword.56 While this recalls the story of David, who similarly used Goliath’s own sword to decapitate him, there is a crucial difference: where the ordinary shepherd boy David must be sought out and anointed before unintentionally arriving at the crucial moment, Judith’s story, as Kathleen M. Llewellyn emphasizes, focuses on the agency and initiative of the heroine – not to mention her exceptionality.57 David’s story is characterized by passivity and divine intervention; Judith’s by action and self-determination. Returning to her city with Holofernes’s head in hand, Judith declares, “The God of Israel. . .hath cut off the head of all the unbelievers this night by my hand.”58 By decapitating the general, she has metaphorically decapitated the Assyrian army, which, now without a leader, retreats. Unsatisfied with this victory, she commands her people, “When you shall know that they are fleeing, go after them securely, for the Lord will destroy them under your feet.”59 Unlike David, who killed Goliath but gave no command to pursue the fleeing Philistines (though the Israelites did), Judith specifically calls upon her people to pursue and destroy their enemy. Though both Bèze and the author of the Passevent parisien envisioned superficially similar goals of differentiation, their vastly different circumstances and expectations are reflected in their respective choices of biblical model. In Bèze’s construction, Passavant comes to Geneva as an emissary of the vilified enemy – he is one of the “they” that the Calvinist David sees coming with “sword and fire.” The perspective is reversed in the Passevent parisien: noble Passevent, like Judith, courageously infiltrates the stronghold of the evil aggressors. Where Bèze could imply the connection to David and Israel, the author of the second text recognizes that the inversion must be explicitly stated if the reader is to grasp the shifted perspective. Thus, he explicitly insists on Judith, which permits him to implicitly posit Catholic Europe, though immensely larger and more populous, as besieged Bethulia and Geneva as the Assyrian army’s camp. This subtly reaffirms the boundaries that he initially drew between the simple adherents of Calvinism and its leaders: the suffering victims that he mentions in the opening obviously live within France – if they lived in Geneva they would not be exiled and executed; the Calvinist leaders, whom he characterizes as cowardly and villainous, enjoy safety and comfort in Geneva. The socio-theological boundary that he draws conveniently corresponds to a clear political one, which reifies the boundary and permits the author to expand the scope of his analogy. Like Judith, Passevent has infiltrated the enemy stronghold and returned – not with the head of Calvin or one of his generals, but with damning accounts of their supposed debauchery. The bulk of the dialogue is occupied with lengthy, detailed descriptions of vile deeds committed by Calvinist leaders,

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most particularly Bèze: they defile young women and bed their followers’ wives; they secretly abort unwanted pregnancies, or else marry the pregnant woman off to an unsuspecting young man; they steal and manipulate, deceive and defile. Where Judith literally kills Holofernes with his own sword, the author of the Passevent parisien opts for character assassination by means of a supposed true account of the Calvinist leaders’ own deeds. Words again become the weapon of choice as he metaphorically decapitates the Calvinist host by undermining Calvin and Bèze’s spiritual authority. Unlike Bèze, however, the author is not content to limit the violence to words. Having metaphorically cut off the head of Calvinism, leaving its body vulnerable, and defined the boundaries that divide the opposing religious factions, the author is then able to address the conflict more concretely. A common accusation leveled against French kings throughout the sixteenth century by zealous Catholics – Artus Désiré chief among them – paints the monarchy as complicit in the rise of Protestantism by virtue of its supposed inaction. Welldocumented persecution aside, any restraint on the part of Catholic monarchs is understandable given the complicated relationship of sovereign to subject, the political rivalries that threatened the kingdom’s stability, and the concentration of aristocratic power in the Protestant ranks. Nonetheless, a sense of impatience and discontent with the political response permeates Catholic polemical discourse of the time. The author of the Passevent parisien initially addresses this obliquely through the analogy to Judith, who acted when her city’s leaders did not. This implicit criticism is made explicit at the end of the dialogue when, again imitating Judith, the author calls for general destruction of the Protestants. Clearly trying to force a political and military response, he implores the reader to pray for unity among Christian princes so that they might “tous ensemble mettre a feu & a sang telle secte de bannis, & pleins de tous vices: a l’honneur de Dieu, & triomphe de son Eglise.”60 Clever use of Judith and her story not only permits the author of the Passevent parisien to imbue the conflict with a sense of sacred precedent, but it also permits him to incite the violence that he has already legitimized.

Conclusion In the war of words preceding the Wars of Religion, the Bible was an arsenal as much as it was a battleground, but the partisan satirists who drew from it found more than the blunt weapons of curses and condemnation. They found the materials to construct complex paradigms with which they could define the

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Christopher M. Flood

limits of their societies and frame their circumstances in the pursuit of particular ends. Where the Calvinist author, writing for the persecuted minority, found verbal weapons to counter the blades and fire of the enemy, the Catholic author found a clearer path to physical violence. These two examples reflect unexpectedly nuanced perspectives on identity, community, and communal selfperceptions, but more than that, they demonstrate a profound trust in the power of words – both in God’s word and in their own. Forging satire from scripture, these authors were able to impose meaning on an increasingly chaotic and dangerous world, which consequently allowed them to change that world. They created the distinctions and drew the boundaries that would permit them to expel undesirable elements and, thereby, to mold their societies.

Endnotes 1.

2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

“Contra nos non pugnatur nisi gladio et flammis. . .nos autem non pugnamus nisi solo gladio, id est verbo Dei.” Théodore de Bèze, Le Passavant, ed. Jeltine Lambertha Regina Ledegang-Keegstra (Leiden: Brill, 2004), p. 188. Unless otherwise indicated, all English translations from Latin and French are my own. Gilbert Highet, The Anatomy of Satire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1962), p. 155. John Dryden, The Works of John Dryden, ed. A. B. Chambers, William Frost, and Vinton A. Dearing, vol. 4, Poems, 1693–1696 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), p. 71. Charles H. Parker has shown how the authors of sixteenth-century Calvinist martyrologies drew reassuring parallels between contemporary martyrs and biblical heroes, framing their people’s afflictions with familiar narratives and casting themselves as a new Israel. Graeme Murdock has similarly demonstrated how Calvinists adopted Old Testament models in the political realm, employing them “to construct a distinct political and cultural identity to integrate individuals and communities into the developing confessional states.” Charles H. Parker, “French Calvinists as the Children of Israel: An Old Testament Self-Consciousness in Jean Crespin’s Histoire des Martyrs before the Wars of Religion,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 24, no. 2 (1993), pp. 230–31; Graeme Murdock, “The Importance of Being Josiah: An Image of Calvinist Identity,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 29, no. 4 (1998), p. 1044. Robert C. Elliott, The Power of Satire: Magic, Ritual, Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960), pp. 5, 58, and 89–92. “Modestly condemn vices of [its] time.” Joachim Du Bellay, La Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse, ed. Henri Chamard (Paris: Marcel Didier, 1948), pp. 180 and 264. Psalms 63:4, Hebrews 4:12. Unless noted otherwise, biblical passages are cited from the Douay-Rheims Bible (Charlotte, NC: Saint Benedict, 2009). James 3:5–8. Numbers 5:11–28. Quoted in Jeffrey K. Sawyer, Printed Poison: Pamphlet Propaganda, Faction Politics, and the Public Sphere in Early Seventeenth-Century France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), p. 18.

1 Forging Satire from Scripture

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30.

25

Pascal Debailly, La Muse indignée (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2012), pp. 202–3. Sara Beam, Laughing Matters: Farce and the Making of Absolutism in France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2007), p. 68. Debailly, La Muse indignée, p. 203. Antónia Szabari, Less Rightly Said: Scandals and Readers in Sixteenth-Century France (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), p. 96. Fredric V. Bogel, The Difference Satire Makes: Rhetoric and Reading from Jonson to Byron (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2012), p. 41. Bogel, The Difference Satire Makes, pp. 50–51 and 71. See also Morand-Métivier’s contribution in this volume, “The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu: A Fight for France,” pp. 28–48. Calvin, like theologians from all biblical traditions, frequently referenced David’s humility in his commentary on the Psalms, writing that, before assuming the kingship, Israel’s hero “was contented with his humble condition, and would willingly have lived in obscurity” if he had not been selected by God and anointed by Samuel to occupy the throne. John Calvin, Commentary on the Book of Psalms, trans. James Anderson, vol. 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1949), Psalm 18:18. Théodore de Bèze, Les Juvenilia, trans. Alexandre Machard (Paris: Isidore Liseux, n.d.), p. 120; Bèze, Correspondence, vol. 10 (Geneva: Droz, 1960–2016), p. 89. Bèze expressed his admiration for classical authors in a 1548 epigram, addressing the books of his personal library, his “delights,” beginning with Cicero and Catullus. In a 1569 letter to Andreas Dudith, Bèze claims Martial and Catullus as two of his preferred poetic models. See Malcom C. Smith, Ronsard & Du Bellay versus Bèze: Allusiveness in Renaissance Literary Texts (Geneva: Droz, 1995), p. 48; Zemon Davis, “Peletier and Beza Part Company,” pp. 188–222; Morand-Métivier, “Literary Conflict,” pp. 28–48. Alain Dufour, Théodore de Bèze: Poète et Théologien (Geneva: Droz, 2006), pp. 23–24. Dufour, Théodore de Bèze, p. 29. Théodore de Bèze, Brevis et Utilis Zographia Ioannis Cochleæ, Theodoro Beza Vezelio Authore ([Geneva], n.p., 1549). In the original Latin: Epistola Magistri Benedicti Passavantii responsiva ad commissionem sibi datam a venerabili D. Petro Lyseto, nuper Curiæ Parisiensis præsidente, nunc vero Abbate sancti Victoris prope muros. Ledegang-Keegstra, Avant-Propos, pp. xiv–xxi. Ledegang-Keegstra, Introduction, p. 3. Calvin named Bèze as the author in a letter to Ambroise Blaurer dated February 11, 1554. “Comburi sanctos homines sicut fasciculos.” Bèze, Le Passavant, p. 158. When citing the text of the work from Ledegang-Keegstra’s commented and translated edition, the page reference will refer to the original Latin text. “Non est tumultus Parisius quam de domino Lyseto. . .qui fecit unum terribilem librum adversus pseudo-evangelicam haeresim, adeo ut dicant quod nos haeretici non respondimus, quia non potuimus respondere.” Bèze, Le Passavant, p. 158. Emphasis added. “Plus vastabit uno die, quam vos aedificaveritis in mille annis.” Bèze, Le Passavant, p. 158. “Vos ergo loquimini de domino Nuper-praesidente, certe ecce bonum numerum. Quomodo valet dominus nasus ejus? Est-ne semper vestitus de craemesino? Est-ne semper damasquinatus?” Bèze, Le Passavant, p. 158.

26

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

46.

47.

Christopher M. Flood

François Rabelais, Pantagruel, in Œuvres complètes, ed. François Moreau and Mireille Huchon (Paris: Gallimard, 1994), chap. 7. Ledegang-Keegstra, Avant-Propos, p. xiii. 1 Kings (1 Samuel) 17:45. “Contra nos non pugnatur nisi gladio et flammis. . .nos autem non pugnamus nisi solo gladio, id est verbo Dei.” Bèze, Le Passavant, p. 188. Bèze’s Latin rendering can be compared with the same passage in the Vulgate and French Geneva Bible: “Et quia videmus hodie quod contra nos non pugnatur nisi gladio et flammis. . .nos autem non pugnamus nisi solo gladio, id est verbo Dei” (Bèze, Le Passavant, 189); compared with “Tu venis ad me cum gladio, et hasta, et clypeo: ego autem venio ad te in nomine Domini exercituum, Dei agminum Israël quibus exprobrasti” and “Tu viens a moy avec ung glaive / lance / et bouclier: et moy ie viens a toy au nom du Seigñr des armees / du Dieu de lordonnãce de Israel / lesqlz tu as deffie” (1 Kings/1 Samuel 17:45). Scott M. Manetsch, Theodore Beza and the Quest for Peace in France, 1572–1598 (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 98, 103, 112–13, 209–13, and 250–57. On the real nature of religious violence perpetrated by both Protestants and Catholics in early modern France, see Natalie Zemon Davis’s seminal essay, “The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France,” in her Society and Culture in Early Modern France (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987); and Denis Crouzet’s Les Guerriers de Dieu. La violence au temps des troubles de religion, vers 1525–1610 (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 1990) and Dieu dans ses royaumes: Une histoire des guerres de religion (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 2008). Examples of such references can be found in Bèze, Le Passavant, pp. 158, 162, 172, 174, 182, 186, 190, 214, 222, 228, etc. Ezekiel 23:25; Martial, Epigrams, 2.83 and 3.85. Dufour, Théodore de Bèze, p. 32. In the Comédie du pape malade et tirant à la fin (Geneva: Conrad Badius, 1561), the character L’affamé, explicitly identified as Désiré, is recruited by Satan to write against the Huguenots. Frank S. Giese, Artus Désiré: Priest and Pamphleteer of the Sixteenth Century (Chapel Hill, NC: UNC Department of Romance Languages, 1973), p. 107; Anon., Comédie du pape malade, p. 59. The pasquinade tradition developed in the early sixteenth century and was quickly introduced into the religious disputes by authors like the Italian humanist Celio Secondo Curione, whose Pasquillus ecstaticus et Marphorius (1544) was widely read and translated into several languages in the decades following its publication. Szabari, Less Rightly Said, p. 131. “But above all, I beg you not to think, nor to assume of me, that I am that Passevent who wrote to monsieur Lizet. . .for that was a man named Thadee [sic] Bèze.” Anon., Passevent Parisien respondent a Pasquin rommain (Lyon: n.p., 1556), fol. 3v. “If unreasoning beasts seek to help each other. . .what must a man, who is made and formed as a reasoning creature, do if he sees something harmful or dangerous threatening his neighbor?” Passevent Parisien, fol. 2r–2v. “Their venerable, debauched preachers.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 2v–3r.

1 Forging Satire from Scripture

48.

49.

50.

51. 52.

53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

27

“As to manner of dress, their preachers and those who aspire to be such dress like our procurers and lawyers, apart from the square caps. . .And all the others are clothed like our merchants.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 5r–5v. “They neither pray, nor fast, nor perform a meritorious act any more than a dog or wild beast, but they say and preach that Jesus Christ completed everything for us, and that he came for the sinners and not for the just.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 5v–6r. “To bring to an end and ruin all of those abominable and detestable people living without Law, with the help of God.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 4r. The list includes: James, 1 John, 1 Corinthians 11, and Matthew 23. Passevent Parisien, fol. 3v–4r. “I think and hold for assured that the same God who delivered good Judith, and his Church of Israel by his hand: that he aided and delivered you from many plots and treasons concocted against you by those infidel enemies of God, and therefore of man.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 4v. Frédéric Delforge, Bible en France et dans la francophonie: Histoire, traduction, diffusion (Paris: Publisud, 1991), pp. 15–16, 69. Accepting Saint Jerome’s opinion on the books included in the Septuagint, but not in Hebrew versions, Protestants relegated the book of Judith – along with several others – to the Apocrypha before eventually removing it from the Protestant Bible altogether. It is still included in the Catholic Bible as a deuterocanonical text. Judith 8:9–34. Judith 9–11. Judith 12–13. Kathleen M. Llewellyn, Representing Judith in Early Modern French Literature (Burlington: Ashgate), p. 11. Judith 13:27. Judith 14:5. “Put to fire and the sword that sect of exiles full of every vice; to the honor of God and the triumph of his Church.” Passevent Parisien, fol. 48r.

Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier

2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu: A Fight for France The French Wars of Religion were some of the bloodiest civil conflicts in French history. Countless battles and massacres occurred in the 36 years (1562–1598) during which the wars took place. As the wars ravaged the countryside, literature was a weapon of choice for both Catholics and Protestants. The “wars of words” that occurred concurrently to the Wars of Religion were extremely violent and should be considered as an integral component of the wars. The writings attacking both sides were meant not only to hurt and condemn, but also to last, as Natalia Wawrzyniak demonstrates.1 In this essay, I will analyze a literary quarrel between Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585), the “prince of poets,” a crucial figure of the French kingdom, and Antoine de La Roche-Chandieu (1534–1591), a prominent French reformist, who mostly wrote under numerous pennames.2 In his Discours des misères de ce temps (1563), Ronsard presents himself as the poetic protector of a battered kingdom, writing “d’une plume de fer sur un papier d’acier” to defend the kingdom against the attacks of the Protestants, whom he considered enemies of the true faith and of the kingdom.3 Chandieu was the most gifted of the young Protestant poets who attacked and mocked Ronsard’s poetry; his Palinodies, a trenchant rewriting of the Discours, had a tremendous impact on Ronsard, who was so infuriated by their content that he wrote the “Response aux injures” in reaction.4 There are two primary sources of scholarship on this subject: François Rouget’s “Ronsard et ses adversaires protestants,” and Sara Barker’s Protestantism, Poetry and Protest. Rouget, notably, argues that the relationship between Ronsard and Chandieu sheds light on two opposite ideas: first, Chandieu’s mockery of Ronsard as an institution, and second, Chandieu’s admiration of Ronsard as evidenced in the rewriting of the prince of poet’s work, even as Chandieu uses it to create a pastiche.5 In this paper, I will argue for an additional function of Chandieu’s work by demonstrating how this war of words should not be considered only as an attempt by Chandieu to “destroy” Ronsard, but also as a way to craft alternative narratives about the defense of France. The two poets both offer a defense of the kingdom, even though they identify different foreign enemies. Their poetic quarrel therefore should not be seen as simply an opposition between two visions of poetry, as many scholars, including Barker and Rouget, have argued. Rather, their combat becomes an emotional defense of France, through very opposed means. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-003

2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu

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Writing the Wars of Religion: Between Ban and Defense The First French War of Religion – the conflict during and after which Chandieu and Ronsard quarreled – lasted for a year (1562–1563). It broke out following the massacre, orchestrated by the Duke of Guise, of Protestants who were praying in a barn in Wassy, a small town in northwestern France.6 The massacre led Protestants and Catholics into a short but bloody conflict, which came to an end with the Edict of Amboise, signed on March 19, 1563. This edict stopped the war and guaranteed (with limitations, like the Edict of January before it) freedom of religion for Protestants. However, peace was only momentary, as six other wars took place before the conflicts came to an end with the Edict of Nantes, signed in 1598 by Henri IV. Charles IX, whose reign began shortly before the First War, did not want to see the precarious truce and peace threatened. For this reason he signed the “Défense d’imprimer aulcuns livres sans privilege du Roy” on September 10, 1563.7 The king ordered the writers of both sides of the conflicts to stop slander and hate speech immediately if they wished to avoid punishment: qu’ils n’ayent, sur peine de confiscation de corps et de biens, à mettre en lumière, imprimer, ne faire imprimer aulcun livre, lettres, harangues, ne autres escrits, soit en rythme ou en prose, faire ne semer libelles diffamatoires, attacher placars, ne mettre en évidence aulcune aultre composition, de quelque chose qu’elle traite, sans premièrement qu’elle ait esté veue et considérée par Nous en nostre conseil privé, et pour ce faire en permission de Nous, sous le grand scel de nostre chancellerie.8

According to this decree, no printing of a combative nature would be tolerated. For the Crown, enforcing a repressive policy on printing was the only way to obtain some respite from the escalating violence disseminated in print. Both Catholics and Protestants were targeted in a decision that seems to prove that the king indeed wanted to impose peace, without any preference given to the Catholics. However, in spite of this decree, Ronsard and Chandieu continued their quarrel after the war on the battlefield was officially over.9 Sara Barker explains that “for Ronsard and for his critics. . .poems are not commentaries on the situation or reactions to it, but part of the conflict, produced and deployed to have the greatest possible effect on the enemy.”10 Who, between Ronsard and Chandieu, was the first to attack the other, and thus start their conflict? Ronsard was the target of choice of every aspiring poet. He was the most powerful poet in France and had a constant presence at the court. In

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a sense, Ronsard “was” France; his renown and influence on France’s political system and intellectual society was tremendous.11 Most of Chandieu’s criticism comes from the fact that he perceived Ronsard to have taken over the kingdom; Ronsard had become so powerful that it was not possible to conceive of an intellectual or emotional narrative of France that would differ from his own. By attacking Ronsard for his political ideas, it is the poet’s “official” vision of the kingdom that Chandieu criticizes. Table 2.1 places their works in chronological order, in order to understand how the two poets encountered each other’s works:12 Chandieu did much more than attack Ronsard. He rewrote him, changing crucial sentences and words to fit his own narrative. Most of his two Palinodies and the Response aux calomnies (1562–1563) are directly based on Ronsard’s works, so much so that Sara Barker considers 62.4% of Chandieu’s poem to be a direct copy of the works of the Vendômois.13 He ventriloquizes Ronsard to the point that it would make an inattentive reader unsure of whether the Palinodies were Chandieu’s or Ronsard’s. This move is highly political. Ronsard was the intellectual, literary, and, to a certain point, political compass of the kingdom. Using and deforming his words was a strong statement. Because of his omnipresence, his words had a quasi-religious power; by distorting them, Chandieu challenges the authority of Ronsard. It is then much more than a mockery of his text that he produces with the Palinodies, for he also disrupts the “official” political discourse of the period by showing its limitations. Giving an example of Chandieu’s method is important for understanding how the two poets echo each other. In the Discours des misères de ce temps, Ronsard addresses the Queen mother and lists some of the problems plaguing the kingdom. One of his examples focuses on a shipwreck in which France would be the victim: Las! Madame, en ce temps que le cruel orage Menace les François d’un si piteux naufrage, Que la gresle et la pluye, et la fureur des cieux Ont irrité la mer de vens séditieux, Et que l’astre jumeau ne daigne plus reluyre.14

Ronsard here underlines how France, represented as a boat, is threatened by a storm that risks sinking the kingdom. The weather is as bad as possible (rain, hail, thunder); even navigation is made impossible. The “astre jumeau” represents here the constellation of Castor and Pollux, Gemini, which was used to navigate. Everything is against France, a clear allusion to all the elements that Ronsard considers to be conglomerating to undermine the stability of the kingdom.



Institution pour l’adolescence du roy Charles IX

Composed and originally printed in Ronsard’s Œuvres in . Reprinted as a brochure in , , .

Originally printed in the  edition of the Œuvres. No reprint until .

Elegie à Loïs des Masures



Composed and originally printed in Ronsard’s Œuvres in . Reprinted as a brochure in , , .

Elegie sur les troubles d’Amboise (also known as Elegie à des Autels)



Notes

Pierre de Ronsard

Year

Anonymous play, which Barker argues is Chandieu’s.

Tragi-comédie. L’argument pris du troisième chapitre de Daniel. Avec le Cantique des trois enfans, chanté en la fournaise

(continued )

Very few copies survive today, which makes Barker believe that the pamphlet might not have had a reprint run (pp. –, n. ).

Notes

Advertissement aux fideles espars parmi le royaume de France, de se donner garde de ceux qui sans legitime vocation s’ingerent au ministere de l’Evangile

Antoine de La Roche-Chandieu

Table 2.1: Summary and Timeline of Works Related to the Literary Conflict of Chandieu and Ronsard.

2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu

31



Year

Response aux calomnies

Originally published as a brochure in April ; written after the death of the Duke of Guise in February .

Response aux injures

Histoire des persecutions et martyrs de l’eglise de Paris, depuis l’an  iusques au temps du Roy Charles neufiesme

Apologie ou defence des bons chrestiens contre les ennemis de l’Eglise chrestienne

Palinodies de Pierre de Ronsard, Gentilhomme Vandomoys

Idem.

Continuation du Discours des misères de ce temps Originally published as an anonymous brochure. Written between late November and early December .

Published in a brochure in , reprinted in . Composed after the massacre of Wassy?

Discours des misères de ce temps

Antoine de La Roche-Chandieu

Remonstrance au peuple de France

Notes

Pierre de Ronsard

Table 2.1 (continued )

Printed in , written in late .

Printed in , composed in late .

Notes

32 Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier

2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu

33

In the Palinodies, Chandieu uses most of the original words of Ronsard with minimal, but important changes (italicized here): Las! Madame, en ce temps que le cruel orage Tormente les François d’un si piteux naufrage, Que la gresle et la pluye, et vent malicieux Ont irrité la mer des flots séditieux, Et que les Guysiens veulent France destruire.15

Some of the changes made to the excerpt are minimal (those related to the natural elements); however, others transform the meaning of the text. The change between “menace” and “tormente” indicates an evolution of the nature of the threat, which is no longer potential, but actual and present. The last line of the excerpt is the most drastic difference. The followers of the Duke of Guise, one of the most important Catholic figures in the kingdom, are here directly designated as the enemies of the kingdom. It is then not so much Ronsard as a poet who is attacked even though mocking his poetry is a part of Chandieu’s rhetoric. Rather, the Palinodies denounce those who threaten the very fabric of the kingdom. Far from protecting the kingdom, people like the Guises are accused of bringing it to its demise. Putting this denunciation in “Ronsard’s” words amplifies it – leading readers to think that the great poet himself could be the author of this attack. This reckless copying has been interpreted by most scholars as an effort to ridicule Ronsard. For instance, François Rouget explains that “en inversant les déclarations de Ronsard, on dénature son art, sa mission de porter les aspirations de l’ordre monarchique tout en mettant en avant la personne même du poète engagé.”16 It is evident that mockery and, in a sense, humiliation, were prime objectives of Chandieu. However, as Rouget argues, such a technique should also be seen as homage. Rouget describes the fraught relationship between Chandieu and Ronsard as a “relation ambigüe où se mêle admiration et désapprobation.”17 Chandieu’s Palinodies are probably the most famous examples of this relationship. However, it is not full-fledged hatred that we witness here, and I would like to consider the relationship between Chandieu and Ronsard through the eyes of theory to make my point clearer. Writing while using someone else’s words as an example, or even rewriting someone else’s words to appropriate them, was far from a new idea. It was especially popular in the Renaissance. Imitation was discussed by Aristotle, Cicero, and Quintilian, who did not see it as a repetition or weakening, but, on the contrary, as a way to interpret the text.18 Maria Martinez-Alfaro explains, “imitation as theory and practice presupposes a virtual simultaneity and identification of reading and writing, but it also implies and depends on upon a process of transformation.”19 Inspired by Bakhtin’s writings, Julia Kristeva

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conceptualized these ideas through the concept of “intertextuality.” In Word, Dialogue, and the Novel she explains that “each word (text) is an intersection of words (texts) where at least one other word (text) can be read. . .any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transformation of another.” Texts cannot exist as independent entities, but only in relation to others, and within their cultural, political, and intellectual contexts. Chandieu and Ronsard experienced the wars in two very different ways; their writings, then, propose two different interpretations of the same event, so the reader can understand their point of view. Chandieu, like all the Protestant literary opponents of Ronsard, focused on two particular facets of Ronsard’s rhetoric: his intense praise of the royal family, and his religious zeal.20 But Ronsard’s encomiastic poems are not simply meant to praise; they are rooted in a profound belief that they will help strengthen and create a perfect kingdom. Ronsard saw his role as that of a safeguard for France. He denounces all those who intend to prevent the establishment of the idealized France presented in his works. For him, the kingdom rests upon two unmovable pillars – Catholicism and the royal family. Those who do not fully embrace these two principles are, then, not in agreement with the most basic definition of Frenchness. Such a stance was not acceptable for the Protestants; in the beginning of the conflicts, most were proud defenders of the kingdom, and would never have thought to challenge the authority of the king. They felt profoundly French, and many had worked for the greatness of the kingdom. Gaspard de Coligny, for instance, was raised at the court of Francis I and fought many battles for the kingdom. Ronsard, however, treated them as enemies and traitors. In the “Discours à Loys des Masures,” Ronsard started criticizing “ceulx de la nouvelle foy” even though some of them, like des Masures, had been among his closest friends. 21 Ronsard saw Protestants as a threat to the unity of the kingdom. However, in the Discours des Misères de ce temps and its Continuation, his tone became much more accusatory and violent, and his attacks culminated when he was personally criticized by Chandieu. I consider here that the homage that Rouget describes is secondary; Chandieu’s reference to Ronsard is no longer a (half-disguised) praise through criticism, but rather, a harsh attack of the indefensible actions that Ronsard condones, at least, according to Chandieu.

Ronsard’s Poetic Defense of the Kingdom Ronsard was a vibrant proponent of a Catholic France, united behind a strong royal family. The Wars threatened the perfection of the kingdom as he conceived

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it; that is why he used poetry as a weapon to defend France. While Ronsard’s epic poem La Franciade is a history and praise of the greatness of France, the Discours draw the stern lines of defense of an endangered kingdom, profoundly anchored in the present of its writing. The bellicosity of his work is evident in the very first lines of Elegie à des Autels in which he announces the role and aim of his poem: Il faut en disputant par livres le confondre, Par livres l’assaillir, par livres lui respondre, Sans monstrer au besoing nos courages failliz Mais plus fort resister plus serons assailliz.22

Military action, legislation, and religion are not enough to rid the kingdom of heresy; literature itself shall lead France to victory. Ronsard crafts a severe denunciation of the Protestants. Surprisingly, there is also a swift critique of France as a kingdom, which Ronsard believes can bear some responsibility for its current problems. Much like what Agrippa d’Aubigné would propose decades later, Ronsard sees the conflict as a fraternal fight that is slowly drawing life out of the kingdom: “Tes enfans, qui devroyent te garder, te travaillent / Et pour un poil de bouc entre eux mesmes bataillent.”23 France is humanized, characterized as a suffering mother (“France exterminée”) who is nevertheless partially responsible for her own misfortune: “France, de ton malheur tu es cause en partie.”24 The theme of a battered mother is also present in the Continuation, where France is also compared to a mother “Que ses propres enfans l’ont prise et devestue, / Et jusques à la mort vilainement batue.”25 Marcus Keller argues that this image of the mother helps Ronsard personify France as a national community.26 He suggests that “the violent eruption of the civil war necessitates a poetic strategy that copes with the discontinuity of the national narrative and allows for a different poetic of Frenchness.”27 Ronsard’s poetry is not, then, only a matter of defense, but also, for him, a matter of survival of the millennial institution of the French kingdom. His poetry aims to prevent the dangers of secession by denouncing the lies and mistakes of the Reformation. The ideas proposed by Ronsard are the model to follow to enrich France and make it one again, through a precise identification of the problems threatening its “national unity.”28 The inside elements of this community – to follow up on Keller’s idea – are disrupted by agents from the outside of the kingdom. The Elegie à des Autels is the first to introduce this trope, central to the writings of Ronsard. France must cope with the evil she has brought upon herself:

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France, de ton malheur tu es cause en partie, Je t’en ay par mes vers mille fois advertye, Tu es marastre aux tiens, et mere aux estrangers, Qui se mocquent de toy quand tu es aux dangers: Car la plus grande part des estrangers obtiennent Les biens qui à tes fils justement appartiennent.29

Ronsard shows in this excerpt that he wants to delve into the problem; if France has troubles, it is, of course, because of the attacks of the Protestants. However, France is also responsible. The kingdom was not careful, and let her enemies settle there. France also did not acknowledge those who were ready to defend her. This excerpt carries a potential reminder by Ronsard that the war is the result of weakness; it is only through a reevaluation of the policies of the kingdom towards its own kin that the foreign enemies will be ousted. One of the consequences of this permissiveness toward enemies in the kingdom is that they reap the wealth of France. However, the worst consequence of their pernicious presence in France is that they bring dissent into the kingdom: Ce monstre arme le fils contre son propre pere, Et le frère (ô malheur) arme contre son frère, La sœur contre la sœur, et les cousins germains Au sang de leurs cousins veulent tremper leurs mains, L’oncle fuit son nepveu, le serviteur son maistre, La femme ne veut plus son mari recognoistre. Les enfans sans raison disputant de la foy Et tout a l’abandon va sans ordre et sans loy.30

It is not simply French people who are set against each other; the very fabric of families is destroyed. The passage carries a double meaning. Families were a central unit in the construction of a society; they are torn apart by the malicious spirit of Reformation. But we could also perceive France itself as a family, one which is contaminated from the inside in this analogy. In this passage, Ronsard follows a well-known concept of the period when he argues that the Protestants were agents of external forces, intending to overthrow the French kingdom.31 Using the trope of the family reinforces this attack; nothing is sacred to the enemies to the point that they even destroy families. Ronsard is honest about his past experiences with the Reformation. In the Remonstrance, he explains “J’ay autrefois goutté, quand j’estois jeune d’age, / Du miel empoisonné de vostre doux breuvage.” It is only thanks to his superior intellect that he did not fall into that trap: “Mais quelque bon Daimon, m’ayant oui crier, / Avant que l’avaler me l’osta du gosier.”32 As a former near-“victim” and a friend of Bèze, the great Protestant poet, Ronsard’s attacks are rooted in

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reality.33 He personally survived these lies and lives to testify. The Protestant religion is not pure because it allows anyone to discuss God’s holy words (the evidence of which is that women and children can read and preach the Bible): “Il ne faut pas avoir beaucoup d’experience / Pour estre exactement doctes en vostre science.”34 He makes up a list of four “prerequisites” that one must fulfill in order to be a Protestant: hating the Pope (“detester le papat”), slandering the Catholic dogma (“parler contre la messe”), wearing a “uniform” (“barbe longue, et le front / De rides labouré, l’oeil farouche et profond, / Les cheveux mal peignez un soucy qui s’avalle / Le maintien renfrongné, le visage tout palle”), and, finally, and the worst offense for Ronsard, writing and discussing the faith without the proper knowledge to do so: “Se monstrer rarement, composer maint escrit, / Parler de l’Eternel, du Seigneur et de Christ.”35 The Vendômois reacts to the religious problem of Protestantism by focusing not so much on its dogma, but rather on its relationship to people. The absence of intermediary between the divine and the human is problematic; it is not only impious, because unmediated, but also dangerous, as people might become accustomed to it and may start thinking of having such a relationship with the king, thus endangering the kingdom. As the voice of the king and France, Ronsard advocates for strong action against Protestantism. It is the poet’s role to defend his kingdom against the attacks it suffers from the inside. Chandieu’s rhetoric uses Ronsard’s work to promote a message that, I will argue, is not drastically different from that of Ronsard. Indeed, both focus on the dangers facing the kingdom, from the outside and the inside. However, in contrast to what Rouget has proposed, it is the same issue (namely, the potential downfall of the kingdom) that the two poets tackle, and although they are focused on lamenting the same crisis, the two poets find fault with those on each other’s side.

Chandieu and Ronsard: Attacks or Common Ground? The “Discours à Loys des Masures,” is the first direct response of Ronsard to his critics; he explains there that he does not care whether his readers like or hate his poetry: Ains ny par edict, ny par statut publique Je ne contrainct personne à mon ver poeticque, Le lise qui voudra, l’achette qui voudra:

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Celuy qui bien content de mon vers se tiendra Me fera grand plaisir: s’il advient au contraire, Masures, c’est tout un! Je ne sçauroys qu’y faire.36

In an unusual display of humility, Ronsard acknowledges that those who read his poetry might not love it; in fact, he even states that he does not care much about their opinions (“Je ne sçauroys qu’y faire”). Before Chandieu, Ronsard was mainly criticized for two reasons. First, many considered that he was wasting his talent on frivolous love poetry when he could and should have praised the Lord in religious poetry; second, his encomiastic poetry was thought to be exaggerated. In the “Response aux injures,” Ronsard explains that his renown itself should scare away those who criticize him: “Ton cuer, bien qu’arrogant, de peur debvroit faillir / Au bruit de mon renom, me voulant assaillir.”37 Was Ronsard hypocritical in his statement after he announced that he understood that his poetry was sometimes poorly received? Ronsard does not criticize the words of Chandieu per se; given the latter’s penchant for imitating him, he would be criticizing himself by doing so. Rather, he denounces Chandieu’s methods since the Protestant poet was, according to him, ridiculing his words, his reputation, and his status.38 Chandieu dismantles Ronsard’s writing by putting his own ideas in the mouth of the prince of poets. Because so much of the original text remains, it looks like Ronsard himself is the author of the very polemical and critical poems, which publicly criticize the kingdom and the Pope. Let us examine how Chandieu’s rhetoric is constructed. In the Elegie à des Autels, Ronsard wonders why mighty kings and princes throughout Europe, as well as intellectuals, choose not to fight and prevent the perils of Reformation from spreading: Des Autelz, que la loy, et que la rhétoricque Et la Muse cherist comme son filz unicque, Je suis esmerveillé que les grandz de la Court (Veu le temps orageux qui par l’Europe court) Ne s’arment les costez d’hommes qui ont puissance Comme toy de plaider leurs causes en la France, Et revenger d’un art par toy renouvellé Le sceptre que le peuple a par terre foulé.39

Ronsard presents des Autels as a powerful, respected, and gifted man and emphasizes the necessity for him to use his poetic persona and law (“loy,” “rhetoricque”) as the regulator to the troubles brought by “le peuple” that threaten the kingdom, endangering its foundation. When Chandieu rewrites this section, however, the few words he changes completely modify its meaning (I have italicized these changes):

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De Besze, que la foy, et loy Evangelique Et la Muse cherist comme son fils unique, Je suis esmerveillé que les grands de la Court, (Veu le temps outrageux qui par la France court) Ne s’arment les costez d’hommes qui ont puissance, Comme vous de plaider leurs causes en la France. Il faut que par vostre art, ores soit redressé Le sceptre, que le Pape a du tout renversé.40

Whereas Ronsard’s version was a call for action against the Protestant menace, dedicated to Guillaume des Autels, a poet friend of Ronsard’s and briefly a member of the Pléiade, Chandieu’s rewriting is dedicated to Theodore de Beze – the “Protestant Ronsard,” who literally takes the place of des Autels in his version. Bèze is invested by Chandieu as the leader of the intellectual actions that must be undertaken to thwart the attempts of the Pope to discredit and take over the kingdom. Bèze’s power and fame come from three sources: religion (“la foy”), the law (“la loy evangelique”), and poetry (“la Muse cherist comme son fils unique”). He is therefore the undisputable champion of the upcoming fight for France. He must perform his actions in a climate described as “outrageux,” and no longer “orageux”; the opposition between these two terms underlines a change for the worse of the climate in France. The difficulties that he will have to face, brought upon by those who oppose his quest for truth against the lies and evils of Rome, will be like bad weather that hampers a traveler from reaching a destination. The Catholic authorities are the primary cause of the problems that the kingdom was facing; the “peuple” are not guilty of this outrage, because they are forcibly fed the lies of the Pope, lies that they are tricked into believing as truth. Rome’s interference in the affairs of the kingdom is a classic trope of Protestant rhetoric; by putting it in the mouth of Ronsard, Chandieu hopes to undermine the position of the latter as the French poet par excellence. Chandieu had to balance his allegiance to his faith with the institutionalized violence that the Kingdom had unleashed against the Protestants. This dualism is, I believe, the epitome of the personality of Protestant writers. They were pleading for the right to practice their faith peacefully, arguing that they were not the enemy of the kingdom. Sara Barker argues that Chandieu’s persona must be seen at the intersection of three entities: that of the man, the poet, and the pastor tasked with organizing French Protestantism. As such, I believe that the original characterization given to him by scholars, summarized by Barker as an “angry young man” firing off vitriolic polemic against Ronsard in the early 1560s, is at best simplistic, at worst dismissive of his importance.41 The attacks of the Palinodies are directed towards Ronsard and

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his poetry; however, they do not target Ronsard’s genius and writing as much as they attack how he uses this gift. Chandieu is aiming at undermining his allegiance to a system – mostly that of a kingdom overtly ruled by the Church and the enemies from the outside who are trying to destroy it. The Palinodies specifically criticize Ronsard’s supposed religious frivolity. One of the examples his opponents use is the essential reference to his carnal desires and needs found in the “Response aux Injures”: “J’ayme à faire l’amour, j’ayme à parler aux femmes, / A mettre par escrit mes amoureuses flames.”42 Two issues arise: Ronsard’s lust is not acceptable because such behavior is unworthy of a religious man, whose duty is to be pious and detached from the pleasures of the flesh. Likewise, the nature of his poetry, based on these emotions and feelings, is also harshly criticized, as many Protestant intellectuals considered it frivolous or lewd. If Ronsard embodied France, as he himself implied, his lascivious thoughts gave the image of a weak, frivolous kingdom. With these ideas in mind, I will specifically focus on a few selected sections of the Palinodies that best embody the viewpoints of Ronsard’s critics. In the first Palinodie, the state of France is directly discussed: France, tout ce malheur te vient de ta folie, Dieu t’en a par sa voix mille fois advertise Tu es marastre aux bons, et mere aux messagers Du Pape, qui te font tomber en ces dangers. Car la plus grande part des hypochrites tiennent Tes tesmples, et tes lieux qui aux saints appartiennent Dont tu as veu en toy d’un Besze le savoir, Qui a pour ton repos employé son pouvoir Poursuyvant à la court de ton salut l’affaire Au danger de sa vie, et ne le pouvoit faire Sans la faveur de Dieu, qui rompant le sejour, A Poissy l’introduit en l’espace d’un jour.43

France is a cheated and deceived entity. The kingdom harbors its enemies (the “messagers du pape”) within its bosom, who are the “hypochrites” from Rome. Ronsard (as portrayed by Chandieu) is, then, either willingly or unbeknownst to him, guilty of partaking in this enterprise of destruction. He is a pawn of Rome who taints the message of God. These “hypochrites” exist in opposition to the champion of the Protestant cause, the great Bèze. For Chandieu, Bèze is the defender of France (“pour ton repos employé son pouvoir”) whose sole aim is to save the kingdom. He is the intellectual model for all French Protestants and a figure of reverence. The last two verses (“Sans la faveur de Dieu, qui rompant le sejour, / A Poissy l’introduit en l’espace d’un jour”) are an apparent allusion to the colloquium of Poissy, where Calvin was barred and replaced by

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Bèze, who then became the leading intellectual light of French Protestantism. As a poet, Bèze is symbolically becoming the Protestant equivalent to Ronsard, whom he equals in fame, intellect, and glory, and whose writings will be the Protestant response to the Vendômois. We know that, as a young man, Ronsard listened to Bèze and had great respect for him. He considered him to be the most brilliant mind of the Protestants (“De Baize, qui reluist entre vous tout ainsi / Qu’un Orion armé par le ciel obscurcy”) and his only worthy opponent. In his “Response aux injures,” Ronsard dismisses the minor poets that attack him; only Bèze would be worthy of a real literary battle: Mais si ce grand guerrier & grand soldat de Baize Se presente au combat, mon cueur saultera d’aize, D’un si fort ennemy je seray glorieux, Et Dieu scait qui des deux sera victorieux: Hardy je planteray mes pas dessus l’arene, Je roidiray les bras souflant à grosse halene, Et pressant, & tournant, suant, & haletant, Du matin jusque au soir je l’yray combatant, Sans deslier des mains ny cestes ny courayes Que tous deux ne soyons enyvrez de nos playes.44

Ronsard’s power is such that he is sure he will figuratively destroy Bèze. Because he is also a great poetic “warrior,” Ronsard’s victory will not only be indisputable but will also ensure his presence as France’s greatest poet: Tu dis que pour jazer & moquer à mon ayse, Et non pour m’amander, j’allois ouyr de Baize: Un jour estant faché me voulant défacher, Passant pres le fossé, je l’allay voir prescher, Et là, me servit bien la sourdesse benine, Car rien en mon cerveau n’entra de sa doctrine, Je m’en retourné franc comme j’estois venu, Et ne vy seulement que son grand front cornu, Et sa barbe fourchue, & ses mains renversées, Qui promettoient le ciel aux troupes amassées: Il donnoit Paradis au peuple d’alentour, Et si pensoit que Dieu luy en deust de retour.45

What is attacked in the Palinodies as a weakness (Ronsard’s deafness) is considered as a strength because it prevented him from hearing Bèze’s speech. Just like Chandieu played with Ronsard’s weaknesses and distorted his text, Ronsard also uses the very words of his opponent to construct his response and defense of his cause. Because of this, Ronsard sees Bèze for what he is, a creature close to the devil, whose message is false and degrading. It also demonstrates, I believe, how

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both texts are mutually interdependent. Chandieu turns Bèze into a legitimate representative of God on Earth (“et ne le pouvoit faire / Sans la faveur de Dieu”), thus ostracizing and ridiculing Ronsard even more. The Palinodies are an apparent intertext of the Discours (in a broad sense) because of their origin as an imitation and parody of the original text. One must then wonder whether or not the “destruction” of Ronsard serves the goals of Chandieu. Destroying Ronsard and criticizing his works would also explicitly acknowledge that Chandieu’s own works are of mediocre quality. By mocking Ronsard, is Chandieu not also mocking Ronsard’s writing? That is why I consider the Palinodies as a critique of Ronsard’s world but not, or at least only in a somewhat disguised way, a critique of his writing. Ronsard was the best, and even his enemies had to realize and accept it. Wouldn’t using Ronsard’s own words to criticize him be the final acknowledgment that they have power and beauty? François Rouget perfectly summed up this issue when he explains, “Il s’agissait nullement de déformer le style (éloquent), l’espèce (le discours) ou la forme (le mètre), mais de substituer un lexique par un autre, et donc un contenu sémantique par un message inverse.”46 If the message differs, its core, its base is the same, proving that getting rid of the powerful presence of the master is difficult, if not impossible. Both poets, indeed, are using the same format to attack each other. In both Ronsard and Chandieu’s poetry, agents of the outside (who are religious by nature) infiltrate the kingdom to destroy it. Rome (for Chandieu) and those who fled to Geneva (for Ronsard) play the same role in their respective narratives. Both poets are not natural fighters and had an entirely different path for their writing before they felt compelled to use their words to defend their cause. So are Ronsard and Chandieu the two sides of a same paradigm of France? It could be argued that what they are fighting for is to have a safe, powerful kingdom defended from its enemies. I believe what they are proposing are testimonies that develop around the same theme of France. France is battered and attacked; both poets recognize an enemy from the outside (Rome for Chandieu; Reformation for Ronsard). The only solution that they both acknowledge is for the kingdom to focus on its own members and to stay away from the enemies who do not have the best interests of France in mind. Ronsard and Chandieu, then, both focus on the same idea; France should stop harboring its own enemies. However, it’s the acknowledgement of who this enemy is that is problematic; the two poets are deeply opposed on this matter, even though their original goals, through which their poetry is developed, are very similar. The war of words between the two men was a direct continuation of the First War, in which the violence of assault was translated into writing. The two

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models for France presented by the poets are very close, yet very far from each other. The six wars that followed demonstrate how discussing the idea of France was almost impossible; both Catholics and Protestants had clear ideas regarding their vision for the kingdom, a vision that they did not wish to change in order to fit the desires or hopes of the other group.

Endnotes 1. 2. 3.

4. 5.

6.

See Natalia Wawrzyniak, Lamentation et polémique au temps des guerres de Religion (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2017), notably pp. 10–20. Chandieu wrote under the names Zamariel, Sadeel, and Theopsaltes. “With an iron quill on a sheet of steel.” Pierre de Ronsard, Continuation du Discours des misères de ce temps, 6. All subsequent quotations will be taken from Yvonne Bellanger’s edition of Ronsard’s Discours (Paris: Flammarion, 2000). The numbers for poems indicate verse numbers. Unless stated otherwise, all translations are mine. For this section, I will consider the discourses written until 1563: Elegie à des Autels and Elegie à Loïs des Masures (1560), Institution pour l’adolescence de Charles IX, Discours des misères de ce temps, and Continuation du Discours des misères de ce temps (1562), Remonstrance au peuple de France, and Response aux injures et calomnies de je ne sçay quels predicants et ministres de Genève (1563). The Discours are Ronsard’s only major example of political poetry. Before them (as would be the case after), he mostly composed love poetry, odes, elegies, and hymns. They are the Palinodies (1562), Response aux calomnies (1562), Remonstrances à la reine (1563), and Remonstrance à Pierre de Ronsard (1563). See François Rouget, “Ronsard et ses adversaires protestants, une relation parodique,” Seizième Siècle 2 (2006), pp. 79–94; Sarah Barker, Protestantism, Poetry and Protest: The Vernacular Writings of Antoine de Chandieu (ca. 1534–1591) (Burlington: Ashgate, 2009). This event was the climax of escalating tensions between the Catholics and the Protestants in the kingdom. For Louis de Condé, the leader of the Reformist forces, this massacre was an act of war because it ignored the freedom that was granted to the Protestants after the Colloquium of Poissy (1561) and the Edict of January (1562). The Colloquy of Poissy was held between Protestants, represented by Théodore de Bèze, and representatives of the crown and the Church. Tensions were high between the two parties, who, according to David Potter, were not yet ready to compromise (Potter, ed., The French Wars of Religion. Selected Documents [New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997], p. 12). Despite the fact that the Colloquy ended in a theological stalemate and neither party ultimately agreed to the resulting propositions, King Charles IX (twelve years old at the time) signed the Edict of January at Saint-Germain-en-Laye under the watchful eye of the queen mother, Catherine de Medici, who was desperate to mediate a settlement between Catholics and Protestants. Conceived as a treaty of toleration while both parties were getting ready for a potential war, it gave the permission to Protestants to assemble freely for prayers and celebrations outside of city walls, where they could still organize synods. For further development on the march to war, as well as how the war unfolded,

44

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20.

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see R. J. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion (New York: Longman, 1996), and Potter, The French Wars of Religion. “Ban on printing any book without the authorization of the king.” “They may not, for fear of having their belongings confiscated, divulge stories, print, or have books, letters, exhortations, or any other writings published, either in rhyme or prose; they may also not distribute defamatory pamphlets, post inflammatory posters, or present any other pieces of opinion, whatever the subject, unless they were previously read and authorized by Us in our private counsel, accredited by Us, stamped with the great seal of our chancellery.” Edmond Werdet, Histoire du livre en France depuis les temps les plus reculés jusqu’en 1789. Deuxième partie (Paris: E. Dentu, 1861), p. 109. All translations mine. See Véronique Ferrer, Frank Lestringant, and Alexandre Tarrête, eds., Sur les Discours des misères de ce temps de Ronsard: “D’une plume de fer sur un papier d’acier” (Orléans: Paradigme, 2009), especially “Le naufrage avec spectateur et éloquence réformée,” pp. 129–43. Sara Barker, “‘D’une plume de fer sur un papier d’acier’: Nationalism and War in the Poetry of the French Wars of Religion,” International Journal of the Sociology of Language 220 (2013), p. 160. François Rigolot argues that in the Franciade, Ronsard’s unfinished poetic history of the origins of France, he wanted to give birth to France, chiseled by his intellect and his poetry. See “Ronsard’s Pretexts for Paratexts: The Case of the Franciade,” Sub-Stance 56 (1998), pp. 29–41. All the references in this table come from the notes in Yvonne Bellenger’s edition of the Discours (Paris: Flammarion, 2000), and from Jacques Pineaux’s La polémique protestante contre Ronsard, vol. 1 (Paris: Marcel Didier, 1973). Barker, Protestantism, Poetry, and Protest, p. 141. “Alas, Madam, in these times during which a cruel tempest Threatens the French with a with a pitiful wreck, And hail and rain, as well as the furour from the skies Have angered the sea with rebellious winds, The twin stars of Gemini no longer wish to shine.” Discours des misères de ce temps, 43–47. “Alas, Madam, in these times during which a cruel tempest Torments the French with a with a pitiful wreck, And hail and rain, as well as malicious winds Have angered the sea with rebellious waves, And the Guysians want to destroy France.” Palinodies, 47–51. “By inverting Ronsard’s words, his art is impaired, and so is his mission to carry over the monarchic order by putting forth his persona as an engaged poet.” Rouget, “Ronsard et ses adversaires protestants,” p. 83. “An ambiguous relationship in which admiration and reprobation are intertwined.” Rouget, “Ronsard et ses adversaires protestants,” p. 85. See Graham Castor, Pleiade Poetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). Julia Kristeva, “Word, Dialogue, and the Novel,” in The Kristeva Reader, ed. Toril Moi (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), p. 66. In the “Response aux Calomnies,” Zamariel accuses Ronsard of impiety, comparing him to Anaxagoras:

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Voyla, Ronsard, le moule où tu as façonné Ton erreur que tu as des Enfers ramené, Et vouldrois volontiers faire qu’Anaxagore Eschappé du tombeau vesquit au monde encore (Ronsard, here is the mold in which you crafted The trouble you brought back from Hell, And you would like to do everything so that Anaxagoras Would leave his tomb to be in the realm of the living once again), 87–90. Zamariel also accuses Ronsard of serving the enemies of the kingdom who hide in plain sight in the court and criticize those who wish to defend the kingdom: Ainsi Ronsard louoit en blasmant faussement Tant de gens de vertu qui vertueusement Ont rendu dans Amboize un certain tesmoignage De leur fidelité, et de leur hault courage, Pour retirer leur Roy de son present danger, Et pour le garantir du joug de l’Estranger (Then, Ronsard was praising them, and falsely blamed So many virtuous people who virtuously Gave the evidence in Amboise Of their loyalty, and of their great courage To protect their king from the current dangers And to protect him from the dangers of foreign forces), 297–302. 21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

“Those of the new faith,” 35. Louis des Masures (1515–1574) was a friend of Ronsard, whom he praised and considered to be, alongside du Bellay, one of the most brilliant minds of the time. Des Masures’s literary persona was protean. He started as a “traditional” poet, close to the Pléiade in style, and also translated the Aeneid (1560). After his conversion in the mid-1550s, he devoted himself to religion and to the defense of Reformation, mostly through religious plays. Knowing Ronsard’s character, the fact that des Masures praised Ronsard’s work might explain why Ronsard’s critique of des Masures was gentler than others he produced. For more information on the life of des Masures, his conversion, and his works, see Emma Herdman, “Changing Sides, Changing Styles: The Example of Louis des Masures (ca. 1510–1574),” PhD diss., Oxford University, 1979. “They must be confounded by writing books, Attacking with books, their ideas must be disputed with books, Without once failing to show our courage, But, on the contrary, resist more than our assailants strike.” Elegie à des Autels, 21–24. “Your children, who should be protecting you, instead are wearing you down / And for ridiculous concerns fights each other.” Elegie à des Autels, 129–32. The “tes” here refers to the children of France. Agrippa d’Aubigné, in Les Tragiques, developed the theme of fighting brothers destroying France. “Exterminated France”; “France, you are partly responsible for your misfortune.” Elegie à des Autels, 43 and 157. “Her very own children have used and undressed her / And beat her up until she died.” Elegie à des Autels, 7–8.

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26.

27. 28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34. 35.

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See Marcus Keller, Figurations of France: Literary Nation-Building in Times of Crisis (1550–1650) (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2011), particularly chapter 2, “Mother France and her Dysfunctional Family: Religious and National Imagery in Ronsard’s Discours and Continuation and in Aubigné’s Tragiques,” pp. 41–76. Keller, Figurations of France, p. 42. This expression must be taken into consideration not with its modern usage, but rather in the sense of France as a constructed entity perceived through its royal family and its religion. Disrupting one of these two entities, then, was a disruption of the binding agent of the kingdom. “France, you are partly responsible for your misfortune, Through my verses, I warned you a thousand times, You are a bad mother for your kind, and a good mother for foreigners, Who do not care about you when you are in danger: For most strangers end up with The goods that should come down to your legitimate sons.” Elegie à des Autels, 157–62. “This monster arms the son against his own father, And the brother (O, tragedy!) against his own brother, Sisters against sisters, and the first cousins Wish to soak their hands in the blood of their cousins. The uncle flees his nephew, and the servant flees his master; The wife does not recognize her husband. The children discuss the faith to no good purpose, And all goes to dismay, without order.” Discours à la reine, 159–66. The reference to the family could be linked to the different royalties of Europe; all were connected via alliances and marriages, destroyed by the arrival of the Reformation, notably because some kingdoms decided to embrace the new faith as their official national dogma. See Luc Racaut, Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), specifically chapter 5, “Accusations of Insurrection and Protestant Reforms,” pp. 68–80. “I once tasted, when I was young / The poisonous taste of your sweet beverage; / But some good demon, who heard me cry / Took it out of my throat, before I could swallow it.” Remonstrance au peuple de France, 211–24. Théodore de Bèze could be considered as the “Protestant” Ronsard. In the Continuation, Ronsard exhorts him to listen to his plea: “De Besze, je te prie, escoute ma parole / Que tu estimeras d’une personne folle” (De Besze, I beg you to listen to my words / That you will think come from a madman), 1–2. His great respect for the poet leads him, in the next 25 verses, to conduct a thorough argument pushing his fellow poet to abandon the new faith, that, according to Ronsard, could not be attractive to such an intelligent man. “There is no need for much experience / To be erudite in your science.” Remonstrance au peuple de France, 191–92. “Hate the Pope, slander the Holy Mass, Be a moderate talker, be bearded, and have a forehead, Covered in wrinkles, with deep and fearful eyes. Poorly combed hair, falling eyebrows, A disgruntled air, and a pale complexion,

2 The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu

36.

37. 38.

39.

40.

41. 42. 43.

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Rarely go out, write a great many things, Talk about God Almighty, about the Lord and Jesus Christ.” Remonstrance au peuple de France, 196–202. In his Response, Ronsard did criticize the use of stereotypes against himself, noting that those who used them did not have the intelligence to find other subjects to attack him. “Thus, neither by edict nor by public status Do I force anyone into my verse, Those who want will read it, and only those who wish will buy it: Those who will be delighted by my poetry Will please me greatly; should the opposite happen, Masures, that is life! I shall not care about it.” Discours à Loys des Masures, 29–34. “Your heart, however arrogant, should nevertheless tremble with fear / At the rustle of my fame.” Response aux injures, 9–10. At the beginning of the Response aux calomnies, Chandieu directly alludes to the fact that the words of Ronsard are blasphemous: “N’oyez vous pas gronder les vers pleins de blaspheme / Qu’un profane sonneur parmi la France seme?” (Cannot you hear the growling blasphemous verses / Sowed throughout France by a heathen bell-ringer?), 9–10. “Des Autels, you who are cherished by the Law, Rhetorics, And the Muse as her only son, I am amazed that the powerful members of the Court (Seeing the tumultuous times Europe is going through) Are not surrounding themselves with powerful men Who could, like you do, plead their cause in France, And avenge with artful craft which you renewed, The scepter of France which its people have trampled upon.” Discours à Loys des Masures, 1–8. “De Beze, you who are cherished by Faith, Evangelical law, And the Muse as her only son, I am amazed that the powerful members of the Court (Seeing the outrageous times Europe is going through) Are not surrounding themselves with powerful men Who could, like thou dost, plead their cause in France, You must through thy art, now straight up, The scepter of France which the Pope has completely knocked over.” Palinodie, 1–8. Barker, Protestantism, Poetry, and Protest, p. 3. “I like to make love, I like to talk to women, / To inscribe on paper the objects of my passion.” Response aux injures, 551–52. “France, all your misfortune comes from your madness, God, through his voice, warned you a thousand times You are an evil mother to the pure ones, and a bad mother to the messengers Of the Pope, who drag you into these dangers. For many a hypocrite is at the helm of Your temples, and of your places which belong to the saints You saw by yourself the knowledge of de Bèze, Who, for your quietness, displayed his power. He pursued this action at the Court for your respite

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45.

46.

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At the risk of his own life, and he could not have done it Without the help of God who, leaving his home, Introduced him in Poissy in one single day.” Palinodie, 165–76. “But if Bèze, this great warrior and great soldier, Came to fight, my heart would be full of joy, Of such a strong enemy, I would be glorious, And God knows who would win from the two of us: I will hardily put my feet in the sand of the arena, I will stiffen my arms, panting heavily, And, pressing, turning, sweating, panting, From the morning to the night, I shall fight him, Without letting go of him, and without giving up, We will both be excited by our injuries.” “De Bèze, who shines the most among you all, as much as An Orion armed by the dark skies.” Response aux injures, 27–36; 489–90. “You say that, in order to babble and to mock him, And not to enrich myself, I went to hear Bèze: As one day I was irked, and I wanted to calm down, I was walking by the stream, and I went to hear him preach. My benign deafness served me well, For none of his doctrine got stuck in my head, I left, as pure as when I arrived, And I only saw his great horned brow, His spiky beard, and his twisted hands, Which promised heavens to the gathered troops: He gave the paradise to the people nearby, And hoped that God owed him in return.” Response aux injures, 719–30. “It was not about deforming the (eloquent) style, the kind (discourse) or the form (meter) of his poetry, but rather substituting a word by another one, and thus to replace a semantic message by an opposite one.” “Ronsard et ses adversaires politiques,” p. 80.

Amy Graves Monroe

3 Skirmishes in the Margins: Polemic at the Threshold of the Text The polemics of the French Wars of Religion unleashed vitriol around questions of doctrine, ideas about worship and devotional practice, and problems of exegesis and canon. Confessional antagonism tore at the social and political cohesion of the kingdom and, from both pulpit and print shop, the most heated partisans articulated the reasons for disagreement and denounced the sins of their adversaries. The theological propaganda, pamphlets, and other ephemera that emerged from the struggle between Protestants and Catholics not only fueled factionalism and physical violence, they were also arenas of combat in their own right. Although Pierre de l’Estoile took a dim view of the actual mightiness of pens versus swords, he considered the military metaphor fitting to describe “[l]es Huguenos, lesquels, à leur maniere accoustumée, dechirerent par leurs escrits tous ceux qu’ils tenoient pour autheurs et conseillers de la guerre, et par consequent de leur malheur, aiguisans en ce temps leurs plumes, qui coupoient aussi bien que leurs espées, mais qui ne faisoient pas du tout tant de mal.”1 The writings of religious war have shaped our critical understanding of an early modern conflict whose upheaval spans the social, political, military, and economic spheres. Readings of these “textual weapons” have naturally focused on their content and considered them as a coherent corpus. However, a closer look at the material object suggests that content is just one aspect of how polemical texts convey aggression. The entire printed object is poised for combat. A battle is raging in the title pages, the prefaces, the dedicatory material, the commentaries, the marginalia, and the indexes of texts produced during the Wars of Religion. All manner of quibbles can surface in the paratextual elements of this type of text.2 Titles announce the function of the text, sometimes coyly as in the Contrepoison or the Reveille matin, at other times rhetorically like a Response aux calomnies or any avertissement, apologie, exhortation, sommaire, or remonstrance.3 Prefaces and dedicatory material also stake out claims, playing to the graces of a patron or addressing a church as a faithful community in the manner of biblical epistles.4 Commentaries, marginalia and indexes, where they exist, often settle scores and make pointed observations. In Jean Crespin’s Protestant martyrology, for example, the “true” reformed church and the Catholic Church cannot even share an index entry line – indeed, they remain separate to the last.5 In the thresholds where the reader first approaches the text, partisan enthusiasm and confessional ethos are doing the https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-004

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work of forming orthodoxies in readers. An enormous amount of the persuading, cajoling, suggesting, refuting, and condoning happen here in the paratext. Perhaps the most arresting of these conduits to the text is the title page itself. This study proposes to consider the title page as a space where aggression between religious confessions is framed and projected.

Title Pages as Liminal Spaces of Aggression The title page was, of course, not completely unknown to manuscript culture.6 However, the practice of devoting a front cover page to clearly indicate a book’s contents and provenance of a book, and therefore separate from the text, emerged during the age of print.7 The title page as “separate” is also emphasized by the presence of xylographic title pages created for books printed in movable type. Incunabula initially contained only a title among the front matter, but soon the stuff of the colophon migrated to the title page, and such details regarding the printer, the author, the date and place of printing and the printer’s mark remained grouped there at the front of the codex.8 Dedications, prefaces and other liminary front matter soon followed in any number of combinations, although tables of contents were just as likely to be lumped in the end matter (along with any indices, glossaries, or errata). By the time of the Wars of Religion in the latter half of the sixteenth century, the conventions of title pages had been roughly codified and practices overall standardized in the French-speaking regions.9 The title page displayed information regarding the content of the printed text – any or all of the elements could be present according to the discretion of the printer, who seems to have exercised a great deal of control of the title page.10 Of course, the presence (or omission) of an element has the potential to be meaningful. During the period of the religious wars, one might expect a conventional title page to include the name of the author, a title for the work, some mention of the attributes or attractive selling points (glosses, illustrations, learned commentary, revised edition, quality or expertise of the author), a quote or exergue, the name of the printer (and any distinctive mark or motto), the publisher and/or the bookseller, the place and date of publication, and mention of official status or printing authorization.11 Decorative elements, engraved borders, and illustrations often complemented the layout.12 Although we can identify expectations for presenting texts in the marketplace of print, the situation of pamphlets, ephemera and polemical texts differed in ways that affect their presentation on the title page.

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The clandestinity and discretion that was frequently desirable when printing compromising material disrupted the newly-adopted conventions for the title page. The qualities and visual aspect of the paratextual material in polemical texts are affected by their instrumental nature, particularly as they present to potential buyers and readers. In short, it poses a colossal challenge to clearly communicate the nature of a product to readerships on the one hand and yet also hide essential identifying information on the other. Employing older or borrowed print materials, displaying fictitious addresses, spoofing dead printers and other such strategies were common. Obviously, these strategies help avoid detection and legal troubles. However, they also present unparalleled opportunities to encode messages (satirical, religious, geographical, political, etc.) into their fictions. Indeed, I would argue that the fictitious components were, at least on some level, entirely legible. Ghost printers from “Strasbourg,” “Meidelbourg,” “Cologny,” and “Leyde” were perfectly comprehensible as Huguenot affiliated. A Leaguer text printed in Paris, Lyon or “jouxte la coppie de Lyon” could be trusted by a faithful Catholic. A text from Orleans or Tours after 1588 could be reliably assumed to be royalist or perhaps Gallican. At the most basic, pragmatic level, the title page provides a cover that protected a text – particularly during the span of time that it remained in printed sheets before binding. In the case of polemical texts and ephemera, there was no guarantee that such a fate awaited such texts at all – they were quite simply slimmer and more disposable than other more durable printed matter. It could be argued that the title page itself was more serviceable for printed ephemera and polemical literature than many other types of printed texts. The first independent title page graced a pamphlet printing of a papal bull by Peter Schoeffer in 1463, conferring a bit of stateliness upon a rather slender printing containing just a few leaves.13 By around one hundred years later, the commercial potential for promotion and advertising via the title page had been fully recognized, and informing and enticing the buyer became an indispensable function of the title page.14 The implications for polemical texts are evident—a text that can project strength and promise compelling content stands a good chance of accomplishing its ideological aims and commercial success.

Rival Victims After the incunabulum, book commerce continues to mature and the title page quickly adopts conventions that respond to the tastes of publishers and needs of readers who purchase a book for binding. The mise en page of the title page has identifiable characteristics by the first third of the sixteenth century in France,

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despite a continued presence of variety or regional particularities. The title figures at the upper third of the page and often runs in from top to bottom in increasingly smaller font. Care is often taken in the font and typesetting of the title, and printers were known to employ capital letters, italics, or other flourishes that emphasize important elements of the title. The page identifies an author and often some credential, title, or origin of the writer or commentator. Details regarding the edition (revised, corrected, augmented, etc.) are either included directly in the title, or mentioned in a separate sentence quickly thereafter to stress the novelty, accuracy, and currency of the item. The printing house figures prominently, both by name in the bottom portion of the page, as well as via the printer’s mark. The city of origin and sometimes the physical location of the printer’s boutique are present, particularly for those houses located in a district clustered with other similar storefronts, such those near the seat of legal and parliamentary activity for law books or the university for student texts. This type of branding connects the image on a storefront sign with the mark on the title page. Any official status or role of the printer, such as printer to the king, is displayed prominently here. If the publisher is separate from the printer, this detail can be indicated. This section also can indicate a commercial cooperation between printers or the presence of a subcontracting type of relationship. The date appears in this area as well, often alone at the very foot of the title page or with an indication of the possession of a privilège. Any epigraph or motto can appear between the title and the address at the bottom and can either be standard fare for the printing house or be connected the theme of the volume’s content. The falsification, alteration or absence of any of these elements suggests the possibility to interpret the deviation from convention. Titles of religious polemic often look to mean business, and generally come in two flavors. Either they are starkly presented, without much ornament and the product of cheap, hasty processes with an eye to efficiency and anonymity, or they aim to air grievances within lengthy or clever, satirical titles that grab attention and influence even the casual browser. Longer works of religious propaganda, writings that aspired to more evangelical aims, and texts that could boost sales by boasting authorship by a major reformer all hewed more closely to conventions for the title page and put less effort into hiding. Shorter works and more perfunctory responses in the heat of religious exchanges seem more eager to conceal their strident words. Careful consideration of claims to martyrdom and of persecution in religious polemic, for example, uncovers a tendency to taunt. The Histoire ecclesiastique des eglises reformees au royaume de France contains an elaborate title that promises to truthfully show the renaissance and growth of the Reformed Church and to discover the “true causes” of the civil wars.15 But the real message gets encoded in the printer’s mark.

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Figure 3.1: Title page for Théodore de Bèze, Histoire ecclesiastique des Eglises reformées au royaume de France (Jean Remy: Antwerp, 1580). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque de Genève.

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Depicting three men with hammers preparing to strike an anvil, the motto reads Plus à me frapper on s’amuse, Tant plus de marteaux on y use, “The more they try to strike me, The more hammers are worn down.” The challenge to the Catholic adversary is clear and the claims to truth explicit. Yet these are wrapped in a fiction: this fabricated printer, Jean Remy of Antwerp, distracts us from a Genevan product of Jean de Laon.16 The counterfeit mark and its motto are in this case more performative than they are informative. Nevertheless, this object remains perfectly legible as a product of the international confraternity of Protestants and these fictions tell the story that Calvinism desired to project in 1580. The text of the Histoire ecclesiastique presents itself as a great dare to those who would visit violence and aggression upon the new church – and the message is itself an expression of antagonism in its own right. There are many taunts of this type hidden in polemical texts if one cares to look closely. The Memoires de la Ligue, published in the wake of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, displays a title page with a mark that says “Pietate et justitia.” This phrase in Latin also happens to be the motto of Charles IX, who was king at the time of the massacre. The title page mark translates a biting satirical irony about a sovereign in whom the Huguenots saw neither piety nor justice. In 1570, the year he edited his last iteration of the Protestant Book of Martyrs, Jean Crespin did not hide his identity as he had in the French edition of 1554.17 Few identifying marks grace the sparse title page of the early French edition – no printer, no place, only a title and date. The Latin edition of the Acta martyrum (which would have targeted a different market, international and probably German or Flemish) wears the anchor mark, the city of Geneva and the publisher’s name two years later in 1556.18 A marked difference emerges between the biblical citations that are retained for each title page. The sober Latin edition does not sport any quote from scripture. The two French editions differ in their approach: the 1554 version of the title page offers a short quote from Psalm 44, C’est pour toy, Seigneur, que nous sommes tous les jours occis: et sommes estimez comme brebis d’occision along with a deceptively vague passage from Matthew 24, Qui lit, si entende. 19 Matthew 24 is in actuality an ominous chapter where Jesus speaks of the destruction of the temple and the end of days. The edition of 1570 displays the same antagonism and foreboding, but a bit more overtly: the sole passage that graces the title page is Revelation 6:9–10, at the opening of the fifth seal (i.e., The Cry of the Martyrs). The Huguenots expect that judgment is nigh. Plainly, the tendency to grow bolder and speak plainer evolved over time and, as positions become more entrenched in religious polemic and the sense of apocalyptic urgency increases, the title page bears the signs of increased aggression.

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The title page of Jacques Severt’s Catholic Antimartyrologe seethes with disappointment and outrage at the false pretenses of the Protestants. The title itself begins the litany of denunciations that fill the volume: L’Anti-martyrologe, ou Verité manifestee contre les histoires des supposés martyrs de la Religion pretenduë reformée, imprimées à Genève onze fois. Divisé en douze livres. Monstrant la difference des vrais Martyrs d’avec les faux, corporellement executez en divers lieux. Articles controversés de nostre foy y estans expliqués selon les authoritez de l’Escriture saincte et des anciens Peres. Ensemble l’impie doctrine des Heretiques y refutée, pour la defense de l’Eglise Catholique, Apostolique et Romaine. Jacques Severt, Docteur Theologien en la faculté de Paris, Theologal en l’Eglise de Lyon. 20 Even for the sixteenth century, this title stands out for its length and combativeness. Such detail grabs the reader and simply will not let go. Since this title page is (mechanically) rubricated, its alternation between black and red lines of type give the volume the official appearance normally reserved for a ponderous volume of law or theology. This gesture toward authority is underscored by the insistence on Severt’s professional credentials and his status within two Catholic institutions, the Sorbonne and the Church in Lyon. The printer Simon Rigaud presents a title where Severt sits squarely on the side of the truth and the authority of the Church Fathers – someone willing to patiently explicate doctrine and defend the Catholic Church. Everything is done to maximize the opportunities to first name the offending behavior as a claim and then deny its legitimacy with words that cast doubt. The martyrs among these “heretics” are “supposed” and “false;” their religion is “allegedly” reformed; their doctrine is “impious.” This kind of verbal aggression is interesting for its rhetorical tactics borrowed from the pulpit and tells us something about the limits of the efficacy of a heavy style. The statements contain the positions of an adversary that are then qualified with negative and demeaning terms, unwittingly diffusing the ideas that they seek to combat. The overall impression is that of appropriation and successive attempts at containment. Severt adopts a tone that takes its duty to correct earnestly and soberly but expends so much energy on tangling with Protestant positions that it gets too weighed down for his invective to really take flight. Unwilling to stoop to the level of invective, damning generalizations and stereotype, Severt takes himself and his subject too seriously to really get in any body blows. Nevertheless, the rhetorical strategies he uses typify verbal combat in religious polemic. Louis Dorléans did not make such mistakes and has on the contrary little use for Huguenot texts in the arguments for his political theology.21 Catholicity remains his guiding principle and, to his mind, heretical rule unfailingly brings grief to a kingdom. His Advertissement des Catholiques anglois aux françois catholiques (1586) as well as his follow-up Second avertissement (1590) make

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Figure 3.2: Title page for Jacques Severt, Antimartyrologe (Lyon: Simon Rigaud, 1622). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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arguments that warn plainly of impending doom by using the idea of longsuffering Catholics in England (and, to a lesser extent, Germany) who share with their French coreligionists their experiences of persecution.22 The title pages of the Advertissements are unsigned by any specific author, preferring to let the title wording imply the presence of a collective wisdom. Warnings of loss and distress in the first Advertissement are made (before the Day of the Barricades) under the cover of an anonymous press, whereas after Henri III is gone, the Parisian press of Guillaume Bichon can plainly and boldly display its name on title page and Jean Pillehotte of Lyon, “libraire de la Sainte Union,” prints a copy under his own mark without fear of reprisal. Bichon had quite the wicked sense of humor, since in 1590 he prints Dorléans’s Leaguer Second avertissement pamphlet with “Avec privilege du Roy” in capital letters under the date! The unwavering support of Charles de Bourbon as the rightful heir by Louis Dorléans makes it onto the title page; the king in question is not Henri IV (who is called Navarre and whose followers are denounced in the title).23 Nasty insults abound in non-verbal aggressions that are neatly encoded in the conventions of print culture. Additionally, the tone of admonition and retribution resonate in the choice of biblical quotes for each Advertissement. The first is a quote from Ezekiel 33 that places the responsibility for action into the hands of those that were duly warned, and the second takes up the final lines of Psalm 139, promising a “perfect hatred” for the enemies of the Lord.24 The printer’s mark for Guillaume Bichon on this imprint features a banderole that tells us that this little parlor dog (bichon) spoils for a future fight: Nunc fugiens, olim pugnabo.

Words of Authority: Ventriloquizing Violence through Scripture Biblical passages carry water for religious polemicists and their publishers in a way that merits our sustained critical attention. The instrumentalization of scripture to authorize violence and justify verbal and physical force against an adversary is, of course, a time-honored tradition. Yet it seems to deserve special mention here as a moment of intersection between the text of the author and its presentation by the printer. The printer intervened in the crafting of the title pages for his wares, and was interested to move the merchandise, or assist the bookseller in doing so. 25 In this respect, the title page constitutes a first act of interpretation of what the text contains. The title and the moniker of the writer might be determined in close collaboration with an author, but the elements of

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Figure 3.3: Title page for Louis Dorleans, Second advertissement des catholiques anglois (Guillaume Bichon: Paris, 1590). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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the page itself and the outer presentation of a work are thoroughly mediated by the commercial concerns and professional savvy of the printer. Biblical quotes or short exergue mottoes were quite commonly included in printer’s marks and other engraved devices (and were even included in the growing number of frontispieces that faced the title page). They said something about the ethos of the shop, and were significant in the branding of the enterprise. However, if the printer’s mark was excluded to preserve anonymity, the blank spot was filled with a fleuron or other common decorative motif and the biblical quote came to fill this empty space.26 In other cases, a printer’s mark or decorative element is present, but the biblical citation still makes an appearance to round out the message on the title page. In all cases, the quote conveys an aggressive or righteous stance; the quotes are prophetic admonitions, promises of retribution, or claims of virtuous violence and rectitude. It is evident that the stand-alone citations are specific to the works in question but also by their nature they serve as abstract invocations of authoritative speech. For this reason, the inclusion of a biblical quote for the work sits at an interesting confluence of market expectations for polemic and authorial efforts of persuasion. Emblematic quotes are not limited to religious polemic – Classical quotes occasionally grace a volume of Ronsard’s poetry or, here and there, a political tract or a work of an antiquarian. Religious citations also appear in more sober title pages of proper theological tomes. Yet it is the case that the placement of citations grows significantly in frequency, specifically in religious conflict literature, during the Wars of Religion. There where scripture might have otherwise made an appearance among the rest of the front matter, it is now taking center stage on a number of title pages. Whether that is a phenomenon of increased ideological engagement by printers or a conceit of the genre favored by certain authors remains to be seen. Practically speaking, the presence of biblical text emblazoned anywhere on an early modern object is not particularly surprising. However, what does seem to emerge from the Wars of Religion is a peculiar manner in which they are instrumentalized for polemic. Given their aims and their central message, the citations draw heavily from Old Testament and are printed prominently below the title. There seems to be a soft spot for the prophets and any Psalms that promise to visit violence upon the enemy. The citation of authorities is a fundamental premise in persuasive writing, and polemicists work to shore up their positions and engage readers in their clashes. Controversial issues attract more direct scriptural support, and topics such as the Eucharist, iconoclasm, and Henri IV’s faith all receive a heavyhanded biblical treatment. Texts of the religious hostilities are often laden with citations and examples from biblical sources or patristic writings, and

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sometimes from historians. Yet within these conventions, the placement of an emblematic text on the title page and in the front matter stands out as a manner to convey aggression and to promise adversaries future suffering as punishment his errors. Even John Calvin’s Latin polemical work condescends to make threats. Or, perhaps more precisely, the Genevan printer Jean Gérard enthusiastically antagonizes and baits opponents through the scripture he includes on the title pages. It is a pattern with Gérard that certain types of texts get this treatment and everything points to choices that are intentional. His musical editions of the Psalms in Marot’s translation get adorned by nice, appropriate verses from Psalms. His edition of Calvin’s commentary on 2 Corinthians (1548) does not get any citations and the fiery sword mark sits bare and is a picture of sobriety.27 The Olivétan “sword bible” (1540) is even-handed; it gets one quote from the New Testament (Hebrews 4:12) and one from the Old Testament (Isaiah 1:2).28 The situation of Calvin’s response to the Dutch Catholic theologian Albert Pighius seems to fall in the category of aggressive and angry polemic, and Gérard dresses up his printer’s mark of a very fiery sword accordingly.29 Two short quotes surround the mark, set in all caps: “Non veni pacem mitterem sed gladium. Matt X” and “Veni ignem mittere. Luc XII.” The scene in Matthew 10 where Jesus sends out the twelve – promising that he came “not to bring peace, but a sword” (Matthew 10:34) is recast here to serve a theological quarrel where Calvin’s words are meant to sow discord that turns people on one another in favor of the Lord. The entire context of this short citation is brought to bear on the presentation of John Calvin’s position. The quote from Luke also comes directly from a chapter of the Gospel that promises division over peace: “I have come to bring fire to the earth” (Luke 12:49). There is a lot of presumption in these title pages about how scripture applies to religious quarrels underway in Europe. Encoded into the title page is a promise of conflict, of aggression, of sustained hostility – one that is intended to seem condoned and explicated by the verses on the page. The strategy ventriloquizes scripture, adopting its voice to appropriate its righteousness. Since biblical language is often direct and lapidary in its pronouncements, it carries with it a force of eloquence that is intensified by its ring of familiarity in the mind of the faithful. In other words, these citations do not gesture toward the authority of scripture, they purloin it. I would suggest that the epigraphical quality of the quotes is by design and that there is a precedent for this “threshold” or “frieze” character of the title page in the architectural title page.30 The citations, like a stele or monument, lend a sense of reading an inscription as you enter through the portal of the title page.

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Figure 3.4: Title page for John Calvin, Defensio sanae et orthodoxae doctrinae de servitute et liberatione humani arbitrii (Ioannem Gerardum: Geneva, 1543). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque de Genève.

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Jean Boucher, who did not make his reputation as the most irenic Catholic, has some of the most effective biblical quotes on the title pages of his most contentious works. The Apologie pour Jehan Chastel Parisien (1595) makes justification for the attempted regicide of Henri IV from behind a pseudonym.31 The biblical quote that graces the title page is taken from Psalm 57 in the Vulgate (Psalm 58): “O God, break the teeth in their mouths; Tear out the fangs of the young lions, O Lord!”32 Such a quote certainly conveys aggression on its face. But it is even more truly outrageous and creative given that Chastel’s weapon had cut the lip and broken off part of the tooth of Henri IV. The citation is hand-chosen, situation-specific, and full of the bold rashness of religious polemic as Jean Boucher learned to practice it. Boucher had never been a friend of Henri IV, opposing as he did the legitimacy of the king’s conversion to Catholicism in the Sermons de la simulee conversion.33 The Parisian edition of that text reminds us, in the text of the Vulgate, to watch out for false prophets (Matthew 7:15) and promises a hatred of God’s enemies: “Do I not hate them, O Lord, that hate thee? Am I not grieved with those who rise up against thee?” (Psalms 138:21, 139:21, in Vulgate).34 As it is presented by the Parisian Leaguer press that published it, Boucher’s title page makes the clearest and fullest identification between the enemies named in scripture and his own religious adversaries of sixteenth-century France.

Ghost Fighters: Constructions of Provenance in Polemic Print culture has trained us to look to the title page for clues regarding the provenance of a text. The oratory position of the text, as well as some indication of the qualities of its writer and producer, retained their importance in the genre of religious polemic. On this count, the title pages are often stubbornly opaque and dodgy. Rather than making any promises of conclusions or a definitive typology of authorship(s) in the genre, it is more suggestive to talk about the modalities that construct authority. Pseudonyms provide meaningful rhetorical positions in the work and grace the title pages of some of the most famous religious pamphlets: Ernestus Varamundus (François Hotman’s pseudonym for the De furoribus Gallicis), Eusebe Philadelphe Cosmopolite (author of the Reveille matin), François de Verone Constantin (Jean Boucher), Stephanus Junius Brutus Celtus (for the Vindiciae contra Tyrannos) are each a persona that is individuated by the function of the work itself.35 They all wear their names for the

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Figure 3.5: Title page for Jean Boucher, Apologie pour Jehan Chastel, Parisien. (N.p.: N.p., 1595). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

qualities and character that are of value for the polemical work and their denunciations have power because of those virtues. They are earnest, loving of their burgher neighbor, constant, and they stay alert to defend the republic

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against tyrants. Like Pantapole, the “prochain voysin du sieur Pantagruel” on the title page of Antoine Marcourt’s Livre des marchands, they are fictions judged by the (fictional) company they keep.36 Indeed, as was the case for biblical quotes, the “authors” of religious polemic can adopt voices that they ventriloquize – often in order to spoof them in satire. In this vein, Antoine Marcourt offers us a Confession et raison de la foy de Noel Beda and Agrippa d’Aubigné adopts the identity of a lapsed Protestant when pens his manuscript of the Confession Catholique du Sieur de Sancy.37 The clues that the title page reveals about the provenance of a text all have their role to play in constructing the identity of the combatants in religious polemic. In the internet age, it might seem perfectly intuitive to assume that aggression and anonymity go hand in hand. Indeed, nameless pamphlets and ephemera are numerous during the Wars of Religion. However, we cannot neglect to account for the attachment to authority and social credit characteristic of early moderns and recognize that some indication of the status or identity of the speaker helps polemic to land its punches. Anonymity was certainly a feature of some polemical works, but pseudanonymity was common. An alphabet soup of initials held the place of writers’ names in many title pages and prefaces. In other works, the indication of a function such as “doctor of theology” or “gentleman of Paris” or “true Catholic” provided some sense of the identity of the writer for the reader. These fictions cannot be dismissed as simple conceits and are on the contrary integral to any proper understanding of the function of the attacks of the polemical literature. One pamphlet of the Wars of Religion, the Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant, is an unsigned text that presents a conversation between types – a royalist and a supporter of the Catholic League. The original pamphlet of 1593 is so popular, that a royalist adaptation appears in the following year.38 The maheustre and the manant are retained for their dialogue because of their point of view – they are both specific enough to be a category of identity but abstract enough to serve their meaning in the staged conversation. They are the authors of their own experience and function as such in the pamphlet. Much like the Florentine gentleman who observes the Estates General in the Satyre menippée, they serve a rhetorical purpose of observation that operates as critique.39 Commentary forms part of the observer’s description and judgments, often the common sense of some honnête homme. In this sense, the doxa that the polemicist attempts to marshal on behalf of his arguments relies on the social assumptions we see embedded in these “characters” that populate the genre. Anonymity is meant to suggest the faintest presence of mediation, retiring into the background at key moments.

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Reading the Whole of the Text Polemical texts seek out methods to perform speech acts of aggression, persuasion, and proselytization. To that end, the title page sets the tone of engagement and serves as point of entry for the text. Along with the other paratextual elements of print, it mediates understanding of a discourse in print. Taking its battle to the page, religious polemic reaches out like a street preacher to grab passers-by by the collar. The rhetorical function of the polemical text often sits plainly on the title page. Response, apologie, exhortation, avis, sommaire, remonstrance. . .polemical speakers try all of the rhetorical tactics at their disposal to denounce adversaries.40 The action in the paratext is both verbal and nonverbal: authors try to persuade and refute in a space that they have set up for their first jabs at their adversaries. The title pages of religious polemic bristle with energy. Some texts may seem spartan, rough, and completely unstudied. Others opt to start their quarrels straight away on the title page with elaborate and taunting titles, satirical printer’s marks, meaningful pseudonyms and emblematic citations that appropriate authority for their purposes. Yet, for all of the attempts at disguise, evasion and hoaxing, each title page is legible in its own way by the public it is attempting to reach. It is also supposed to sting opponents. The visual language, material presentation and textual apparatus of the title pages of religious polemic may shout a battle cry, whisper curses, or make sarcastic jokes, but they always speak the words of the religious wars.

Endnotes 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Madeleine Lazard and Gilbert Schrenck, eds., Registre-Journal du règne de Henri III, vol. 2 (Geneva: Droz, 1992–present), p. 89. My understanding of paratext follows Gérard Genette’s Seuils (Paris: Seuil, 1987), but accounts for the historical particularities of early modern print culture. Artus Désiré, Le contrepoison des cinquante deux chansons de Marot (Avignon: Pierre Roux, 1562); Eusèbe Philadelphe [Nicolas Barnaud] Cosmopolite, Le reveille-matin des francois et de leurs voisins (Edinburgh [Strasbourg]: Jacques James [Bernard Jobin], 1574). Such strategies are typical of Guy de Brès, John Calvin, Antoine de la Roche Chandieu and Théodore de Bèze, to name a few. These indexes appear in later versions of the work that had grown substantially in length, developed principally by Simon Goulart and Genevan printers like Pierre Aubert. Margaret M. Smith, The Title Page: Its Early Development (1460–1629) (London and New Castle, DE: The British Library and Oak Knoll Press, 2001), pp. 31–34. Ronald B. McKerrow, An Introduction to Bibliography for Literary Students (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), pp. 88–89. McKerrow, An Introduction, p. 95. Smith, The Title Page, p. 60.

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9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

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There is a clear consistency and harmonization of practices in the period post-1530. JeanFrançois Gilmont and Alexandre Vanautgaerden, with Françoise Deraedt, eds., La page de titre à la Renaissance (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), p. 9. McKerrow, An Introduction, p. 92. Jean-François Gilmont and Alexandre Vanautgaerden stress the difficulties in establishing the role played by printer or author, La page de titre, p. 10. McKerrow, An Introduction, p. 90; Smith, The Title Page, pp. 91–108; Gilmont and Vanautgaerden, La page de titre, p. 12. Smith, The Title Page, pp. 123–42. Smith, The Title Page, pp. 38–39. McKerrow, An Introduction, pp. 90–91. Théodore de Bèze, Histoire ecclesiastique des eglises reformees au royaume de France, en laquelle est descrite au vray la reinaissance et accroissement d’icelles depuis l’an MDXXI jusques en l’annee MDLXIII leur reiglement ou discipline, synodes, persecutions tant generales que particulieres, noms et labeurs de ceux qui ont heureusement travaillé villes et lieux où elles ont esté dresses, avec le discours des premieres troubles ou guerres civiles, des quelles la vraye cause est declaree. Divisee en trois tomes (Antwerp [Geneva]: Jean Remy [Jean de Laon], 1580). Eugénie Droz, “L’imprimeur de l’Histoire ecclésiastique,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 22, no. 2 (1960), pp. 371–76. Jean Crespin, Le livre des martyrs qui est un receuil de plusieurs Martyrs qui ont enduré la mort pour le Nom de nostre Seigneur Jesus Christ, depuis Jean Hus jusques à ceste annee presente MDLIII ([Geneva]: [Jean Crespin], 1554). Jean Crespin, Acta martyrum eorum videlicet qui hoc seculo in Gallia, Germania, Anglia, Flandria, Italia, constans dederunt nomen Evangelio, idque sanguine suo obsignarunt: ab Wicleffo et Husso ad hunc usque diem (Geneva: Jo. Crespinum, 1556). “Yea, for thy sake are we killed all the day long; we are counted as sheep for the slaughter” (Psalms 44:22); “Who so readeth, let him understand” (Matthew 24:16). Translations from the King James Bible. “The Anti-martyrology, or the Truth manifested against the stories of supposed martyrs of the so-called Reformed religion, printed in Geneva eleven times. Divided into twelve books. Showing the difference between true and false martyrs, who were bodily executed in many places. Contested articles of our faith here explained according to the authorities of the Holy Scripture and Church Fathers. The Entirety of the impious doctrine of Heretics here refuted, for the defense of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church.” Translations for this and subsequent footnotes by Katherine Maynard and Jeff Kendrick. Frédéric J. Baumgartner, Radical Reactionaries: The Political Thought of the French Catholic League (Geneva: Droz, 1976), pp. 71–73 and 167–70. Advertissement des Catholiques anglois aux François Catholiques, du danger où ils sont de perdre leur Religion, et d’experimenter, comme en Angleterre, la crauté des Ministres s’ils reçoivent à la Couronne un Roy qui soit Heretique (N.p.: n.p., 1586); Second advertissement des Catholiques anglois aux françois Catholiques, et à la noblesse qui suit à present le Roy de Navarre (Paris: Guillaume Bichon, 1590). Combined reprinting as Premier et second avertissement des Catholiques anglois. Richard Verstegan (Rowlands) also employed the threat of foreign persecutions of Catholics coming to Catholic countries in Theatre des cruautez des hereticques de nostre temps (Antwerp: Adrien Hubert, 1588). Paul Arblaster,

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23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

34. 35.

36.

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Antwerp and the World: Richard Verstegan and the International Culture of Catholic Reformation (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2004), pp. 41–43. Charles de Bourbon died in May of that year, so this dates the pamphlet in the earlier part of 1590. “Celuy qui verra le couteau par terre et l’annocera au peuple, Si le peuple n’en tient compte et que le couteau le frape et le mette à mort, son sang demeurera sur sa teste” (The one who will see the knife on the ground and will announce it to the people, If the people do not heed and the knife hits them and puts them to death, their blood will be on their head). Dorléans, Advertissement, 1586; “Ne haissoy-je pas ceux qui vous haissoyent? Secheoy-je pas de veoir ceux qui vous trahissoyent? Vous le sçavez, Seigneur, et ma foy n’est point vaine Que je les haissois d’une parfaicte haine” (Do I not hate those who hate you? Am I not troubled in heart to see those who betray you? You know it, Lord, and my faith is not vain. I have hated them with a perfect hatred). Dorléans, Second Advertissement, 1590. Smith, The Title Page, p. 125. The sense of needing to “fill the space” of the page is addressed by Smith, The Title Page, p. 124. Joannis Calvini Commentarii, in secundam Pauli Epistolam ad Corinthios (Geneva: Jean Gérard [=Girard], 1543). “La parolle de Dieu est utile et efficace, et plus penetrante que tout glaive à deux tranchants” (The word of God is useful and effective, and more penetrating than any double-edged sword) and “Ecoutez cieux, et toi terre preste l’aureille car l’Eternel parle” (Listen heavens, and you earth lend an ear because the Eternal speaks). John Calvin, La Bible en laquelle sont contenus tous les livres canoniques, de la saincte escriture, tant du vieil que du nouveau Testament (Geneva: Jean Gérard [=Girard], 1540). John Calvin, Defensio sanae et orthodoxae doctrinae de servitude et liberatione humani arbitrii (Geneva: Jean Gérard [=Girard], 1543). Margery Corbett, “The Architectural Title-page,” Motif 12 (1964), pp. 49–62. William Sherman, “On the Threshold: Architectural Paratext and Early Print Culture,” in Agent of Change: Print Culture Studies After Elizabeth L. Eisenstein, ed. Sabrina Alcorn Baron, Eric N. Lindquist, and Eleanor Shevlin (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007), pp. 67–81. François de Verone [Jean Boucher], Apologie pour Jehan Chastel Parisien, execute à mort, et pour les pere et escholliers, de la Societé de Jesus, bannis du Royaume de France (N.p.: n.p., 1595). Deus conteret dentes eorum in ore ipsorum, molas leonum confringet Dominus. [Jean Boucher], Sermons de la simulee conversion et nullité de la pretendue absolution de Henry de Bourbon Prince de Bearn à S Denys en France (Paris: Chaudière, Nivelle, and Thierry, 1594). Nonne qui oderunt te Domine oderam, et super inimicos tuos tabescebam. Ernestus Varamundus [François Hotman], De furoribus Gallicis, horrenda et indigna Amiralii Castillionei, Nobilium atque illustrium vivorum, caede. . .narratio (Edinburgh [Basel]: [Thomas Guérin], 1573); Cosmopolite, Reveille matin des François et de leurs voisins. [Antoine Marcourt], Le livre des marchands, fort utile à toutes gens, nouvellement composé par le sire Pantapole, bien expert en telle affaire, proche voisin du Seigneur Pantagruel ([Neuchâtel]: [Pierre de Vingle], 1533).

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38. 39.

40.

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[Antoine Marcourt], La Confession et raison de la foy de maistre Noel Beda (Paris [Neuchâtel]: [Pierre de Vingle], 1533); [Agrippa d’Aubigné], La Confession catholique du sieur de Sancy et declaration des causes qui l’ont meu à se remettre au giron de l’Eglise Romaine (N.p.: n.p., n.d.). [François Cromé], Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant, contenant les raisons de leurs debats et questions en ses presents troubles au royaume de France (N.p.: n.p., 1593). [Cromé], Dialogue d’entre le maheustre et le manant. [Nicolas Rapin, Jean Passerat, Gilles Durant, Florent Chrestien, Pierre Pithou], Satyre Menippee: De la Vertu du Catholicon d’Espaigne et de la tenuë des estats de Paris (N.p.: n.p., 1594). See Jeff Kendrick’s article, “Reprimanding the King: Jean Bégat’s 1563 Remonstrances,” pp. 69–85 in this volume for one instance of how remonstrances are used to defame enemies and move the king to action against them.

Jeff Kendrick

4 Reprimanding the King: Jean Bégat’s 1563 Remonstrances On June 10, 1558, King Henri II made his way to the Parlement of Paris in order to attend the last session of an extended Mercuriale that had been called to review the sentences of four men accused of being “Lutheriens & contraires a l’Eglise Romaine: que cela estoit un scandale au peuple & aux subjets du Roi.”1 One member openly advocated on behalf of the accused, arguing that “[c]e qui fait qu’on les regarde comme des hommes seditieux, n’est-ce pas, parce que la faveur de la lumière de l’Ecriture, ils ont decouvert & revele la turpitude de la puissance Romaine, qui panche vers sa ruine, & qu’ils demandent une salutaire reformation?”2 As Nikki Shepardson notes, in so speaking, this magistrate “was indirectly (though unmistakably) challenging the king’s own policies and royal edicts as registered in the Parisian Parlement.”3 Though the king would not live to see it, in about a year and half on December 23, 1559, the body of Anne du Bourg, who had pronounced these words, would be reduced to cinders under the watchful eye of Henri’s son, Francis II, and the young king’s mother, Catherine de Medici, leaving little doubt as to the repercussions of challenging royal authority. Both sides of the religious and political divide faced an important question: How does one go about questioning the king in an environment where doing so could cost one’s earthly goods, social position, or even life? In addition to the various political literature and literary texts examined elsewhere in this collection of essays, I would like to address the remonstrance genre and establish its often-overlooked importance as part of the political dialogue surrounding the early edicts of pacification near the beginning of the Wars of Religion. Sylvie Daubresse has looked at the role of the Parisian Parlement as an intermediary between the kingdom and the monarchy. Her invaluable archival work on various remonstrances and other exchanges captures the dialogue characteristic of the consultative relationship between the king and the members of the body.4 In her book One King, One Faith, Nancy Lyman Roelker discusses the humanist training of jurists in the Parisian Parlement and how it influenced what the parlementaires considered to be Catholic and French in the sixteenth century.5 To build on these works and look at similar exchanges between provincial sovereign courts and the monarchy, this article seeks to examine the rhetoric used in Jean Bégat’s 1563 Remonstrances, presented and written on behalf of the parlement at Dijon. Mack P. Holt elegantly https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-005

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summarizes the usefulness of the remonstrances in the construction and maintenance of French and Burgundian Catholic identity.6 In addition to what Holt has added to our understanding of this hybrid genre, I will consider how it also functions to push the king to action, shapes and defines the identity of opposing parties, and opens the door to later resistance while maintaining a veneer of loyalty. In this way, these texts can be seen as weapons in the arsenal at play in the war of words surrounding the French Wars of Religion as the fighting moves back and forth between the printing press, the spoken word, and the battlefield. As tensions mounted throughout the early 1560s and Huguenots protested efforts to ban public sermons and gatherings, the Catholic nobles of the Triumvirate and their supporters began to couch their loyalty to the king in terms of fidelity to the ancient religion that was his.7 Despite the balking of strident Catholics at court, Catherine de Medici and moderates in her entourage proffered the Edict of January in 1562 as the country seemed to be moving inexorably towards war.8 The main tenets of the agreement granted limited legal acknowledgement of the right of Calvinists to practice their religion. Though it imposed tight limits on the localities where Protestants could worship, it did lend royal authority to the toleration of practitioners of the new religion. Given the perception that neither side could defeat the other militarily, both factions continued to use the written word to push for its policies. This edict failed to please either side, but it did appeal, to some extent, to Protestants and to the moderates in Catherine’s government who saw the avoidance of future hostilities as the most important issue facing the kingdom. Despite these promised benefits, the parlements of Paris, Dijon, and Aix challenged the king’s authority by refusing to register the edict.9 One year later, the Edict of Amboise extended the Edict of January and officially ended the first War of Religion. As both Sutherland and Holt note, one of the problems with its terms was that it did not address the issue of Protestant practice in the towns of the kingdom where tensions tended to erupt in violence.10 The weakened royal government did not provide for the exact location of protected religious services but left the enforcement of the edict to the local governments. The fact that many of these governments were opposed to the toleration of Protestants in the first place only led to easy manipulation of the terms as agreed to by the parties at Amboise. Furthermore, the refusal of parlements to register the edict, or to do so only under extreme royal duress, also points to their opposition to the toleration articles. Without the registration of the edict by the parlements, it could not be enforced. Thus, in refusing to register the edict, the parlements were taking a stand against the crown. The Parlement of Paris took the lead by only agreeing to a provisional approval that

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limited the applicability of the edict until such a time as Charles IX would attain his majority and be able to revisit the accord. Clearly, the judges were imposing their will on the royal government insofar as they were constitutionally allowed to do so. Following their cue from the capital, provincial parlements also issued statements asking for revocation or limited jurisdiction of the edict.11 Before looking at the remonstrance from the Parlement of Dijon in response to the edicts of pacification in the early 1560s, it is helpful to define the genre and consider what role it played in political discourse in general. The remonstrance is a particular kind of response to a royal edict or other royal decree that has a long legal history. The etymology of the word, in which is found the root monstrer, indicates its function of pointing out, showing, or exhibiting error. Given the quasi-divine status of the king in sixteenth-century France, such a questioning of his reasoning or his decisions had to be carried out under carefully crafted ceremony. The king, upon his consecration and coronation, took up a unique role as God’s direct minister to the kingdom he swore to protect. During the ceremony, the monarch was anointed with holy oil that connected him to the line of French kings that had persisted for a thousand years since Clovis. His promise to protect and defend the church from heresy and the celebration of mass evidenced sacred nature of his kingship. Individuals challenging him, especially on questions of religion, risked much; take Anne Du Bourg’s fate as a case in point. There were, however, many judicial avenues open to the parlements when it came to questioning the king. The list of some of the most common genres includes (among others) the avis, the discours, the complainte, the harangue, the advertissement, the supplication, the exhortation, the protestation, and the deploration. Comparing the remonstrance to some of these other texts, its advantages and particular uses become evident. The deploration (or declaration) publicly declares a personal (usually a prince or other noble) or collective (usually a province) position on matters of state. The advertissement, as its name suggests, warns a king of impending judgment from God should he continue in his current path. If the text is directed to a lower noble, then royal judgment is often substituted for divine. Whereas the avis and discours more often than not simply describe a situation for their royal readers, the supplication and exhortation tend to present a request in the form of a prayer.12 The remonstrance differentiates itself from these other forms of royal address in that it not only summarizes or describes the current state of affairs but also calls on its addressee to take action in a patently confrontational way. The option of neutrality does not remain on the table. As Paul-Alexis Mellet points out regarding both judicial and other remonstrances, these texts are not “parole inutile ou inefficace” as much as they are

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paradoxical, given they seek to remind an ostensibly divinely ordained prince of his fallible humanity and limits to his power.13 That is not to say that remonstrances disregard the hierarchy inherent in sixteenth-century French society; oddly enough, in fact, their effectiveness depends upon it. The texts begin by proclaiming the allegiance of their authors to the addressee. Take for example, the opening of the 1563 remonstrance of the Burgundy parlement challenging the registration of the Edict of January. From the very start, the text stresses members’ “devotion que nous auons à maintenir vostre tres chrestienne couronne. Ja Dieu ne plaise que vous croyez de nous, SIRE, que nous voulions refuser la paix, apres tant de maux que nous avons veuz en vostre pais par la geurre qui y a esté levée pour la controversie de la religion.”14 The Burgundian nobility confirm the quasi-divine nature of the king by reminding him that God forbids them to refuse to obey the king and portray those who do question the king as enemies of God. All the while they are paradoxically preparing to lambast the monarch for his recent decision to allow the Protestants to worship within the guidelines of the articles of pacification. They also reaffirm the fact that the recent conflicts have destroyed “vostre pais” – highlighting their inferior position and submission to the ultimate authority of the king. It is the king who governs the land, and not they. Furthermore, it is important to see how they maintain their devotion to the “tres chrestienne couronne.” By way of this reminder, they intimate the king’s duty to protect and defend what they perceive to be Christianity. In essence, they imply that the sovereign’s kingship itself is tied to the defense of the faith. By definition, remonstrances challenge the authority of the king while incongruously depending on that same authority to see its demands fulfilled. The act of pointing out a fault in king’s or ruler’s decision in a remonstrance paradoxically affirms the author’s belief in the authority of that very ruler to effect change (or maintain the status quo). The tension between recognizing the king’s authority and challenging it is not the only facet of the remonstrance’s dual nature. Remonstrances were delivered to the king (or appropriate representative) by a delegate on behalf of the parlement opposing full registration of a royal decree. These chosen speakers would use their oratory skills to convey the parlement’s disagreement with the king’s position. As written texts that sometimes even underwent multiple editions, remonstrances were a hybrid form of communication – written and spoken.15 It is a perfect weapon that reaches not only the powerful (in direct address to the king – usually via his representatives – and princes) but also others who hear and read the printed version. As Paul-Alexis Mellet summarizes, these texts “se situent en effet à l’interface entre l’écrit et l’oral, c’est-àdire entre littérature politique et parole publique.”16 The written texts of the sixteenth century were not meant to replace spoken word. Theirs was still very

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much an oral culture, and the remonstrance is a living text that reflects both sides of this culture and is characterized by an undercurrent of dialogue. As conduits of two-way communication in a society where power is derived solidly from the top down, remonstrances in the sixteenth century open the door to the beginning of a political society built on dialogue between the governed and the ruling classes. The French parlements were composed of nobles of the sword and robe so these bodies do not in any way represent a “people’s” or “popular” movement or anything of the like. They do, however, provide for the means to question a supposedly absolute monarch through the issuance of remonstrances and like means of resistance. Furthermore, it is helpful to remember that as judicial bodies, the parlements do not write legislation. They simply register the king’s edicts or decrees to make them applicable and enforceable in their particular jurisdictions. Interestingly, then, the bodies themselves are somewhat analogous to the dual nature of the remonstrance discussed above. Parlements are part of the ruling class insofar as they are comprised of nobles and high-ranking members of the third estate, and they are the “governed” as well since they are subject to the king’s authority. Historically, a parlement could question a royal edict by remonstrance even before the sixteenth century. By 1574, however, evidence was mounting that the monarchy was becoming a bit exasperated by the increase in parliamentary delay in registering, enacting, and enforcing decrees. This is the year Charles IX reiterated the right to give remonstrance but reprimanded the Parlement of Paris for not enacting and enforcing his edicts and ordinances.17 Given the dominance of religious contention at that time, it is not surprising that these originally political texts take on a religious dimension throughout the sixteenth century. Serving as both reminders of the religious troubles and the possibility of conciliation or pacification (at least theoretical) of the fighting, remonstrances are characterized by conflict.18 This conflict is a way for the war to move off the battlefield. Whereas Protestants writers try to focus king on his biblical duties to protect the meek and vulnerable in society, remonstrances written by parlements dominated by Catholics reinforce the traditional idea of France’s king as the protector of the Catholic Church and his duty to rid the land of heretics.19 By opening up a space where conflict can take place between the governed and the ruling authority, “les remonstrances représentent un espace de contestation et d’élaboration d’une pensée politique et religieuse originale.”20 Paul-Alexis Mellet concludes that the goal of these challenges to absolute royal authority is not to “traduire la réalité du pouvoir politique mais de prendre part à un conflit institutionnel. Les remonstrances ne constituent donc pas seulement un mode institutionnel ou pacifique d’opposition au tyran, mais elles

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représentent aussi des efforts ponctuels, confus, pluriels, souvent contradictoires, d’expression d’une société politique émergente.”21 I would like to look at one such example to see how these words are used as weapons to engage various sides off the physical battlefield – the Remonstrances au Roy des deputez des trois estats de son Duché de Bourgongne sur l’edict de la pacification (1563) by Jean Angeau Bégat.22 The son of an avocat du roi, Bégat was born around 1523 in Châtillon-sur-Seine. Bégat arrived in Dijon between January and April of 1547 where he quickly gained notoriety as one of the most illustrious lawyers in the city. After serving as city alderman (échevin), he was nominated to the Parlement of Dijon in 1552. Within the year, he was regularly being dispatched to the king to defend the rights of parlement and to argue for the protection of the Catholic faith against the ideas of the Reformation. Despite the success of Bégat and the Parlement in protecting Burgundy from a Protestant takeover, the Reformed party continued to try to gain a foothold in the staunchly Catholic duchy of Burgundy. Given the region’s – and Dijon’s in particular – geographic proximity to Germany and Switzerland, it is not surprising that Geneva would naturally seek to establish an influence in the area. From the beginning, Bégat set himself up as the defender of the Catholic Church in Parlement. He helped draft and enforce legislation that imposed stiff penalties on perceived heretics.23 When the Edicts of January and Amboise allowed Reformed worshippers to hold open services in different cities and granted a general amnesty, the Burgundian états and the Parlement chose Bégat to represent them before the king and declare their sincere opposition to the edict’s implementation.24 It was his authorship and delivery of these Remonstrances that remains his most enduring textual composition. Despite his failure to ultimately convince the king to revoke the edict, Bégat’s discourse was moving enough to merit mention by Agrippa d’Aubigné in his Histoire universelle.25 At a very early stage in the debate over the extent of the sovereign’s authority that took place on both sides during the Wars of Religion, the 1563 Remonstrances contribute to laying the foundation for a Catholic theory of resistance to the king – paradoxically, by challenging the Protestant’s right to oppose the sovereign’s will. Bégat’s opponents pick up on this seemingly seditious nature of the avocat’s text. For example, in response to the Remonstrances, an anonymous author of a 1564 Apologie defends the king’s edict and challenges Bégat’s claims. Ignoring or downplaying Bégat’s attempt to reinforce the king’s authority, the crown’s champion in the Apologie calls the Burgundians’ remonstrances both seditious and rebellious. In his Response pour les deputez des trois estatz du pays de Bourgoingne contre la calumineuse accusation, publiée soubz le tiltre d’Apologie de l’edict du roy pour la pacification

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de son royaume, Bégat makes clear that his intent in the 1563 Remonstrances was not to undermine the king’s authority. Instead, as we will see, his 1563 Remonstrances perform what Jérémie Foa has termed loyauté infidèle.26 The document also opens the door to opposition of royal authority since he justifies the issuance of a remonstrance arguing that good kings have always listened to helpful ministers and others who have had the courage to let them know when something is not right. Even if a remonstrance does not persuade a sovereign to change his path, Bégat maintains that the records of opposition to a law need to be kept for posterity in case the law needs changing. In his Remonstrances, Bégat speaks for the Burgundian deputies and tries to convince the king that he should not publish or enforce the provisions of the edict that “tolerates” the Reformed religion in the kingdom of France. Holt, in his analysis of the text, highlights Bégat’s main point: the kingdom of France is held together by its common Catholic religion.27 As mentioned above, Bégat begins these Remonstrances by reaffirming a desire on the part of the états to stay loyal to the king and the fact that they have always remained loyal: Premierement, sire, ils ont supplié vostre Court vous faire entendre qu’ils declairent tousiours qui’ls [sic] veulent demeurer treshumbles & tresobeissans subjects, selon la fidelité qu’ils vous ont jurée, & comme il convient à ceux, qui ont ceste honneur d’estre membres de vostre premiere Perrie, laquelle ils vous ont tousiours conseruée par leurs loyautez. Et en ceste humilité, obeissance & subiection, ils vous supplient comme leur bon Roy, pere par Iesus Christ tout puissant, qu’il vous plaise ne trouuer mauuais, s’ils ont requis vostre Court, de differer la publication de la dicte declaration, & si de present en toute doulceur & humilité, ils vous font surce leur remonstrance, d’autant qu’ils estiment quant à leur conscience, veu l’vnion de l’Eglise qu’ils ont promise & iurée dés leur baptesme, il ne peuuent ne doibuent souffrir qu’vne assemblée de peuple, qu’ils croyent estre separée d’icelle vnion, soit exercée à toute liberté deuant leurs yeux, à la destruction & ruine de l’Eglise construicte & bastie par les Apostres.28

Bégat performs the required balance between respect for the king’s authority and the call to action. Not only is the king assured of the Burgundians’ continued fidelity to the crown, they remind him that their loyalty has been constant and has preserved and supported the king. This is supposedly a reference not only to the legal actions promulgated against the encroaching Protestants from neighboring lands but also their armed support of Catholic troops during the First War of Religion. By using words like “humilité, obeissance & subjection,” Bégat couches his argument in terms that make the king responsible for his actions. The états just follow the king’s lead. At the same time, he sets limits on the very authority to which he is appealing. By failing to “differer la publication de la dicte declaration,” Bégat claims the king is opposing himself to Christ. Though those who have been separated from the union of the church (“qu’une

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assemblée de peuple, qu’ils croyent estre separée d’icelle union”) are the ones who perpetrate great evil, the king’s lack of action would implicate him in destruction and ruin of the Church that the apostles built. In essence, the parliamentarians are able to bring the most damning charges against the king – calling into question his very Catholicity – while maintaining the façade of a position of submission. They even go so far as to imply that the king’s lack of action puts him at risk of eternal punishment. By linking authentic baptism to preservation of the union of the Church, they set up a paradigm whereby they might challenge the king’s own baptism as inauthentic or subject to question if he stands idly by. Bégat, thus, takes his place (and designates the other parlementaires) among those who “résistent” this and future edicts of pacification. However, it would be an error to name them “résistants” in the purest sense of the term. This is particularly true for Bégat who maintains his loyalty and commitment to the monarchy throughout this remonstrance. Besides such perfunctory boilerplate statements about loyalty, there is other evidence that Bégat would never consider himself a rebel against the king. He sees his reminding the king of the importance of customs and traditions that have sustained the monarchy since its inception as dutiful service. What he points out actually helps the king maintain his connection to the long line of rulers that have preceeded him, highlighting the principle of normative plurality to which France’s sovereigns had held since the earliest times.29 Bégat argues: Depuis lequel Clovis jusques à vous, Sire, qui peult ignorer de quelle constance les choses ont esté conduictes en France, sans jamais avoir receu aucune diversité de religion, ny exercice d’autre religion, que de la catholique & Romaine, jusques à maintenant que lon vous tire la felicité des mains, & le bon heur de vostre maison, consistant principalement à la grace de Dieu, qui vous sera tousjours donnée, tant que vous retiendrez vostre Royaume en ceste pureté, sans leur souffrir mesler deux sectes, dont il est necessaire que l’une ne soit pas bonne? Serez vous le premier, Sire, apres tant de Roys, & apres tant d’exemples domestiques & estrangeres, qui romprez cest ordre inviolable, & qui souffrirez vostre peuple clocher entre Dieu & Baal?30

The king’s authority extends only so far as it maintains the current social and religious “order.” Bégat’s not-so-veiled threat is that if the king steps outside the bounds of these limits that have maintained the French monarchy since its foundations, his kingship and relationship to the past kings of France can legitimately be called into question. The author of the Remonstrance also aligns the king with Satan in the last rhetorical question he asks. In this way, he frames the king as the potential ultimate other instead of the representative of the “pure” and “undiluted” unity that is France in Bégat’s mind. Bégat ends this

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section by reminding the king that he was crowned and ordained in the “foy Romaine.” Any deviation from the pure faith would undermine his authority to rule and command his people. Arguing from examples spanning religions, historical eras, and ecclesiastical and judicial histories, Bégat predicts the destruction and ruin of any kingdom wherein more than one religion is tolerated. He does not limit this ruin to religious institutions or the moral character of the king or the subjects themselves, but he foretells the collapse of civil institutions as well. As one example, Bégat points to the example of Valentinian who allowed heresy to exist in his empire and was eventually chased out of it. Once he revoked the right of the heretics to continue their heresy, he was restored to his position of honor. Bégat concludes: “Voyla, Sire, comment la bonne fortune suyt tousjours les conseilz des bons Empereurs zelateurs de l’honneur de Dieu, qui ne souffrent l’exercice d’une secte contraire à leur religion: & au contraire ruine & malheur suyvent ceux qui dissimulent à deux opinions contraires.”31 Interestingly, Bégat chooses to categorize the king’s hesitation between the two religions in terms of dissimulation or hypocrisy. By refusing to choose sides and simply tolerating the existence of Protestantism, the king is engaging in a kind of deception. He is being untrue to himself and to his subjects. After considering examples of foreign leaders, the Burgundian lawyer focuses on the peril the king’s tolerance of Protestants poses to civil institutions foundational to French society. Bégat restates the dual metaphor that the State is only a larger version of a household or family, and a family is just a smaller version of a kingdom. The worst thing, in Bégat’s mind, that could befall a family is if a concubine tries to replace the legitimate wife as the mistress of the household. This would cause confusion of the bloodline and uncertainty among the servants as to whom to obey. Employing the common trope of female purity as necessary to promulgate a patriarchal society, Bégat concludes that the kingdom’s only legitimate wife is the Roman Church. All others are “paillardes, & concubines eshontées” who wish to usurp the legitimate wife and abuse the servants.32 Not only does the administration of the kingdom fall to pieces if Protestants are tolerated, society begins to crumble at its most basic unit – the family, metaphorically in terms of the king-church and kingkingdom relationships and also literally, as we shall see.33 The result is confusion among the people. Turning to the ancient Greeks to add credence to his claims, Bégat declares that the edict of pacification divides the kingdom and is, thus, antithetical to the “loix heureuses” of Plato and the “bonnes loix” of Socrates, which unified people instead of driving them apart.34 As Marc Bizer demonstrates clearly in his analysis of the Remonstrances, there is also an appeal through Homer to the

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king “to reaffirm the political value of monarchy and then to argue for the importance of religious union within that monarchy” and to reinforce the connection between strong monarchy and strong families.35 At the basis of these Greek examples is their view that disorder in the family is both a cause and result of disorder in the state. The reference to the Greeks caps this initial discussion of the disharmony within the family that will result from the king’s current course of (in)action. The connection between the family and the kingdom reverberates with other contemporary authors who express the same concerns for the most foundational idea of sovereignty – that of a man over his household.36 The basic unit of the family is the married couple. As Luc Racaut reminds us, “If Catholic authors were concerned with the overall chaos brought about by the Reformation, nothing seemed to concern them more than the inversion of the hierarchy between men and women.”37 By bringing women into the picture, Bégat is able to appropriate common arguments against females (their inability to follow rules, impulsiveness, sexual wantonness, and changeability) and subtly apply them to the king. Bégat returns to the dangers that religious tolerance poses to the literal family later on in his remonstrance. This time, he fears the dissolution of the institution of marriage. He claims that Protestants allow for divorce if one of the parties does not follow the new religion. Even in France, he says, we have already seen “beaucoup de mariages dissoluz.”38 To aggravate the situation, the unimaginable could happen if a woman decided she wanted to divorce and marry another. “Quand doncques une femme aura de quoy se douloir de son mari, qui aura il plus facile que de pretexter la cause de la religion, & separation pour en avoir un autre, au veu & à la barbe de son premier mari en une mesme ville? Et comment se pourra passer cela sans horribles tumultes?”39 The remonstrance then projects this same chaotic atmosphere onto sons who differ from their fathers and servants from their masters.40 The entire social and economic system is subject to collapse should the king be derelict in his duty to protect the kingdom from religious plurality. From this position, Bégat narrows his focus from the family in society at large to the ruling classes. As the family goes, so goes society, and from Bégat’s point of view, it is easy to foresee the complete upheaval of the world as known to sixteenth-century nobility. The author anxiously anticipates that the people will be inspired to rise up against the nobles like they did in Germany in 1524 due to the teachings of Martin Luther. The French are, after all he says, even worse than the Germans when it comes to discipline. Et si en Allemaigne (dont le peuple est fort disciplinable) ceste occasion a esté suffisante pur eslever ce trouble, qui ne cognoist que beaucoup plus elle suffira en ce pais, dont

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nous sçavons le peuple estre noté de legiereté par tous les anciens autheurs, & desia apatelé du goust de liberté, & accoustumé par les nouveaux Evangelistes à ne plus obeir qu’a leur appetit, & entant que les commandemens leur viennent à gré & à plaisir? Et qu’ainsi soit que ceste predication encores ailleurs a produit mesme effect, ceux de Genesve, pour se tenir en leurs libertez, n’ont ils pas deschassé leurs Seigneurs?41

The parlement’s spokesman goes on to raise concerns that this rebellion would not stop at simply chasing the nobility out of their positions of power. He refers to the burning of a noble’s house in the “païs de Maconnois. . .l’an passé.”42 To make matters worse, there will be no one to defend the nobles from this onslaught of mob violence since soldiers will also be infected and en la discipline militaire un discord entre les soldatz, quelque petit qu’il soit, est de tresgrande importance, & par consequent un discord si grand, que de la religion entre noz citoyens, leur ostera tout le moyen de faire la garde qu’ilz auront à faire pour la seureté de vostre païs: mesmement, Sire, que ceux qui seront alienez de la religions du capitaine, ne luy obeiront de sincere amitié, puis qu’entre eux le principal lien de charité, qui est religion, se trouvera rompu & dissolu.43

Without charity, the connections between people are dissolved, and charity – for the author of this remonstrance in any case – is linked firmly to a shared religion. In fact, he goes so far as to claim that religion is the primary link of charity between people. Is he suggesting that without a shared religion, people will not be able to love one another or that shared religion is the primary expression of charity in society? Given the Catholic understanding of public expressions of religion as the force that binds societies together, I would propose that it is the latter. By tolerating Huguenots, the king dissolves the glue that unites his subjects. In this way, the remonstrance partitions France into various groups and subtly divides the king from his people as well. Divisions among people topped the list of concerns in the minds of both camps engaged in the Wars of Religion. The edicts intended to pacify the different camps or resolve the conflicts reflect this worry. Consider the early July 1561 Edict of Saint-Germain-en-Laye which forbids the establishment of factions, conspiracies, or partialities and blames the contemporary troubles on the “diversity” of opinions concerning religion.44 The 1563 Peace of Amboise specifically mentions and seeks to punish the “seditious. . .insolents and stubborn,” all of whom provoke “disorder and factions.”45 For different reasons which are outside the scope of this article, the trend continues and intensifies later in the century. The Guises’ pursuit of closer ties with Spain led Henri III to accuse them in March 1585 of “associations, leagues, and conspiracies” against royal authority.46 His successor, Henri IV, also stated that factions put individuals above the king and the kingdom. As an impediment to absolute power, Henri

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would seek to remove them by any means necessary from public and court life.47 Christopher Flood demonstrates that on one side of the argument, Protestant writers of political literature (e.g., Bèze, et al.) envisioned and tended to portray a hybrid version of France (through satire) in their writings. As the minority, they did necessarily not want to get rid of the majority. They argued that they simply wanted acceptance by them. Catholic writers, on the other side, led by Artus Désiré, tended to reject the notion of a hybrid kingdom. As the majority, they could do without the Protestants. For them, the notion of a hybrid was equivalent to a monster or a diseased body.48 Bégat depends on similar notions of division to drive home the danger that religious tolerance poses to the kingdom while simultaneously exploiting these fissures among its social makeup to advance his own political and religious agenda. The edicts of pacification of the Wars of Religion represent pivotal moments of reflection on the unity of the kingdom of France, on the status of its monarch, and on the emergence of a political society.49 As Malina Stefanovska and Adrien Paschoud remark in their introduction to Littérature et politique, dividing people into factions depends on the existence of a civil or political society insofar as that society distinguishes or opposes itself to the state.50 Remonstrances like Bégat’s are an ideal vehicle for not only expressing, but embodying, anxieties surrounding the perceived dissolution of the kingdom. As hybrid texts, they also serve as reflections of those anxieties; the texts are divided against themselves. The dual nature of remonstrances is to question the authority of the state while paradoxically playing within its rules and functioning by that same authority. Even opposing a king or ruler in a remonstrance is an expression of the author’s belief in the authority of the said ruler. Bégat’s Remonstrances use this power play in an attempt to convince the king to revoke or restriction implementation of the early edicts of pacification, and they reveal some of the motivations that groups had for opposing the king’s move toward toleration in 1562–1563. In addition to the evidence that Mellet provides for remonstrances’ hybrid nature, the judicial remonstrances also serve as weapons Catholics used to advance their agenda off the physical battlefield. Bégat carefully crafts self-representations as well as stereotypes of the other in order to force the king’s hand to action. What we have seen is that in addition to portraying Protestants as seditious workers of iniquity, royal actions (and by extension, the king himself) are also cast in a negative light. These representations of the other – both Protestants and the king – obviously need to be treated with caution since they only reflect one group’s view either of itself or of an opposing party. Coming so close to challenging the authority of the sovereign while upholding that same authority as the basis of one’s argument requires a delicate balance. These texts do, however, shed light on what

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was driving the writer or speaker who used them.51 Bégat and the Catholic magistrates he speaks for in the remonstrance frame their opposition to religious tolerance in terms of the potential dissolution of the kingdom because such tolerance, in their view, necessarily engenders civil conflict. The ruler that tolerates puts his society at risk. That is what lies behind the Parlement’s “resistance” to the ratification of the king’s edict(s). To show just how such resistance was perceived, the king and his delegates sought to remove all mention of opposition from the permanent record. Additionally, “les Protestants tinrent à obtenir l’ordre de le biffer des registres des États.”52 In July 1564, the Remonstrances “made famous by Jean Bégat,” were definitively purged from the official parliamentary registers. This action, carried out by Jacques de Vintimille in accordance with the king’s policy of oubliance, effectively sought to disarm the parlements by erasing their weapons in the form of the written word.53 As the Wars continued, however, arguments such as those raised by Bégat would only intensify as each side painted the other in the worst possible light. Furthermore, as Catholics transitioned from supporters of the monarchy to agents acting against royal authority, Bégat’s words would resonate with those struggling for sovereignty in the second half of the sixteenth century.

Endnotes 1.

2.

3.

4. 5.

6. 7.

“Lutherans and contrary to the Roman Church: this was scandalous to the people and the king’s subjects,” X2a121, Archives nationales (cited by William Monter in Judging the French Reformation: Heresy Trials by Sixteenth-Century Parlements [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999], p. 166). “Is not what makes them look like seditious men the fact that they have discovered the favor of the light of Scripture and revealed the depravity of Roman power, which is sliding towards its ruin, and [that] they call for a salutatory reformation,” JacquesAuguste de Thou, Histoire universelle, vol. 2 (The Hague: Henri Scheurleer, 1740), p. 673. Nikki Shepardson, Burning Zeal: The Rhetoric of Martyrdom and the Protestant Community in Reformation France, 1520–1570 (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press, 2007), p. 38. Sylvie Daubresse, Le Parlement de Paris, ou la voix de la raison (1559–1589) (Geneva: Droz, 2005), pp. 19–20 and 27–32. Nancy Lyman Roelker, One King, One Faith: The Parlement of Paris and the Religious Reformations of the Sixteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), pp. 273–328. Mack P. Holt, “Burgundians into Frenchmen,” in Changing Identities in Early Modern France, ed. Michael Wolfe (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), p. 363. Marc Bizer, Homer and the Politics of Authority in Renaissance France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), p. 121. François de Guise, Anne de Montmorency, and Jacques d’Albon de Saint-André proclaimed themselves the Triumvirate in April 1561 and swore

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8.

9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

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to protect the king and the kingdom of France from the growing influence of the Huguenot sect. See also Arlette Jouanna who remarks, “les associés jurent de maintenir la foi catholique et assurent le roi de leur obéissance à condition qu’il demeure fidèle à la religion de ses pères.” Jouanna, La France du XVIe siècle (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2012), p. 386. For a fuller review of the edict, see Jérémie Foa, Le tombeau de la paix: Une histoire des édits de pacification (1560–1572) (Limoges: Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2015); Mack P. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 1562–1629 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Nicola Mary Sutherland, The Huguenot Struggle for Recognition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980). I will generally use the French spelling parlement throughout this essay to distinguish these bodies from modern parliaments. Sutherland, Huguenot Struggle, p. 144; Holt, French Wars, p. 57. Holt, French Wars, p. 57. When considering remonstrances in this paper, I will generally limit my field of inquiry to those issued by parlements or official assemblies in response to a king’s edict or decree. There are many examples of remonstrances authored by and given on behalf of individuals, but the scope of this discussion will not take those into account. Paul-Alexis Mellet, “L’Expression politique de la plainte: Les ‘Remonstrances’ aux États généraux de Blois de 1588,” in La Plainte à la Renaissance, ed. Florence Alazard (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2008), p. 328. Paul-Alexis Mellet, “Les remonstrances: Une expression paradoxale de la société politique,” in Forms of Conflict and Rivalries in Renaissance Europe, ed. David A. Lines, Marc Laureys, and Jill Kraye (Göttingen: Bonn University Press, 2015), p. 261. “Devotion we have to uphold your most Christian crown. God forbid that you believe of us, SIRE, that we would oppose peace, after so much suffering that we have seen in your lands because of the war that has been waged as a result of the religious controversy.” Jean Agneau Bégat, Remonstrances au Roy des deputez des trois estats de son duché de Bourgoigne sur l’edict de la pacification, par où se monstre qu’en un royaume deux religions ne se peuvent soustenir, et les maulx qui ordinnairement adviennet aux Roys et provinces où les heretiques sont permis et tolerez (N.p. : n.p., 1563). Since remonstrances tend to address specific grievances, they usually have short life spans. One notable exception is Thomas Beaux-Amis’s 1567 remonstrance which was reedited in 1571, 1575, 1585, and 1594. “. . .are, in effect, situated at the interface between written and oral, that is to say, between political literature and public speech.” Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 248. Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 250. Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 248. The number of remonstrances increased during periods of perceived royal weakness or instability. For example, Paul-Alexis Mellet has identified four periods of intensified production: 1560–1562 (Conjuration d’Amboise to Massacre de Vassy); 1567–1570 (beginning 2nd war to Edict of Saint Germain); 1574–1576 (death of Charles IX to first Etats généraux at Blois); 1588–1589 (2nd Etats at Blois to assassination of Henri III); 1593–1594 (abjuration of Henri IV to his sacre). Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 251. Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 256. Mellet, “Les remonstrances,” p. 265. There are several instances of Protestant-authored remonstrances that Mellet documents. While these are useful for comparing the two

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23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30.

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ideological camps, this article focuses on judicial remonstrances issued by parlements in response to royal edicts and other decrees. Jean Bégat’s Remonstrances (and the ensuing response to an Apologie) were reprinted and translated into Latin, Italian, Spanish, and German (implying a more political intention on the part of the author to communicate his ideas to a wider audience than just the king and the queen mother). Turchetti, “Une question mal posée,” pp. 259–60. Translated, the full title of the 1563 edition is Remonstrances to the King from the Deputies of the Three Estates of His Duchy of Burgundy on the Edict of Pacification, by which it is shown that a kingdom with two religions cannot be sustained, and the evils which ordinarily come to the Kings and provinces where heretics are permitted and tolerated. It appears along with Bégat’s Réponse pour les deputez des troiz Estatz du pays de Bourgoigne contre la columineuse accusation publiee soubz le tiltre d’Apologie de l’edit du Roy, pour la pacification de son Royaume ([Dijon]: n.p., 1564) in Louis Condé, Les mémoires de Condé, vol. 4 (London: Claude du Bousse, 1740), pp. 356–412. I cite from the 1563 edition of the Remonstrances housed at the Newberry Library, Case F 39 .326 1561fr. Paul Viard, Le Président Bégat (Dijon: Damidot Frères, 1905), p. 40. There is some debate as to when the Remonstrances were actually composed and for what occasion. Marc Bizer analyzes the text strictly in response to the edict of January (Homer and the Politics of Authority, pp. 121–22). Mario Turchetti posits that it was actually composed before the promulgation of the Edict of January and that even though Bégat orally delivered the content to the king and queen mother after the 1562 Edict of January, the written text could have been adopted from an earlier text and published as opposition to the registration of the Edict of Amboise (1563). See Mario Turchetti, “Une question mal posée: La ‘tolérance’ dans les Édits de janvier et d’Amboise,” in La formazione storica della alterità: Studi di storia della tolleranza nell’età moderna offerti a Antonio Rotondò, ed. H. Méchoulan, R. H. Popkin, G. Ricuperati, and L. Simonutti (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2001), p. 260. Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, Histoire universelle, ed. André Thierry, vol. 2 (Geneva: Droz, 1982), p. 211. “Unfaithful loyalty.” Foa, Tombeau de la paix, p. 38. Holt, “Burgundians into Frenchmen,” p. 353. “First of all, sire, they begged your Court to make it known that they declare always to want to remain your most humble and obedient subjects, according to the fealty they swore to you, & as it suits them, who have this honor of being members of your Peerage which they have always preserved through their loyalty. And in this humility, obeisance, and subjection, they make their supplication to you as their good King and father by Jesus Christ the Almighty, that you do not resent their request that your Court delay the publication of the said declaration, & here, with all due respect and humility, they present their remonstrance insofar as their conscience requires it, seeing the union of the Church to which they swore allegiance from their baptism, they cannot nor must not allow an assembly of people, whom they consider to be cut off from this union, be given complete freedom to destroy and run the Church constructed and built by the Apostles right before the eyes of those presenting this request.” Bégat, Remonstrances, pp. 3l r-v. Foa, Tombeau de la paix, pp. 37–38. “From Clovis to you, Sire, who can question the constancy with which things have been done in France, having never had diversity in religion nor exercise of another religion, except the Catholic and Roman one, even up until this moment, which we receive from

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32. 33.

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the blessing of your hand, & the happiness of your household, principally consisting by the grace of God, which will always be extended to you, as long as you maintain your Kingdom in this purity, without allowing them to mix two sects, of which one, by necessity, is not good? Will you be the first, Sire, after so many Kings and after so many domestic and foreign examples, who will destroy this inviolable order, & who will allow your people to falter between God and Baal?” Bégat, Remonstrances, pp. 8r–v. “And so, Sire, there you see how good fortune always comes from the resolve of good Emperors, zealous for God’s honor, who do not allow the practice of a sect contrary to their own religion: & to the contrary how ruin and despair follow those who play the hypocrite to two contrary opinions.” Bégat, Remonstrances, pp. 5v–7r. “Sluts and shameful whores.” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 9r. See Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier in this volume for more on the familial relationship between king and kingdom (“The Literary Conflict of Pierre de Ronsard and Antoine de Chandieu: A Fight for France,” pp. 28–48). “Happy laws”; “good laws.” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 18v. See Bizer, Homer and the Politics of Authority, pp. 122–29. Here, p. 124. Bizer, Homer and the Politics of Authority, p. 127. Luc Racaut, Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), p. 88. “Many marriages dissolved.” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 22r. “So whenever a woman gets upset at her husband for any old reason, it will be very easy for her to use the pretext of religion to leave him and have another man, in plain sight and under the nose of her first husband in the same town? And how could that happen without provoking grievous tumult?” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 22r. Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 22v. “And if in Germany (whose people are very disciplined), this occasion is sufficient to provoke this turmoil, is it not obvious that it will be more severe in France, whose people we know to be noted by all the ancient authors for their undisciplined ways, & said to be hungry for the taste of liberty, & trained by the new Evangelists to obey only their appetite & hearing that they can take or leave the commandments? And was it not this same message that produced a similar effect on those in Geneva who, in order to wallow in their freedom, expelled the nobility?” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 12v. “Mâcon. . .last year.” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 13r. “In military discipline, a discord between soldiers (no matter how insignificant) is of great import, & consequently a disagreement as important as religion will prevent them from being able to keep watch in the way they need to for the security of your lands: surely, Sire, those who are not of the same religion as their commanding officers will not obey him out of a sincere respect since the principal connection of charity between them, which is religion, will be broken and dissolved.” Bégat, Remonstrances, p. 17r. Malina Stefanovska and Adrien Paschoud, eds., Littérature et politique: Factions et dissidences de la Ligue à la Fronde (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2015), p. 19. Stefanovska and Paschoud, Littérature et politique, p. 19. Stefanovska and Paschoud, Littérature et politique, p. 27. Stefanovska and Paschoud, Littérature et politique, p. 34. See Christopher Flood, “La France satirisée, satyrisée et fragmentée: L’autoreprésentation factionnelle au temps des guerres de religion,” in Littérature et politique: Factions et dissidences de la Ligue à la Fronde, ed. Malina Stefanovska and Adrien Paschoud (Paris:

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Classiques Garnier, 2015); Flood concludes by noting that as things changed, positions were often flipped. With Henri IV’s ascension to the throne, those of the Guise/Ligue position began to argue for peaceful coexistence. Partisans like Aubigné relied on violent notions of separation or rupture. Stefanovska and Paschoud, Littérature et politique, p. 15. Stefanovska and Paschoud, Littérature et politique, p. 8. Holt, French Wars, p. 5. “Protestants sought to have an order to strike it [the remarks] from the official record.” Viard, Le Président Bégat, p. 44. Foa, Tombeau de la paix, pp. 349–50.

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5 A Martial Muse: Words of War in the Quest for French Domination of Literature For François Charbonnier, it is the combative nature of the poetry produced during the Wars of Religion that makes it uniquely French: “les qualités purement françaises de notre poésie classique dérivent, pour une bonne part, des œuvres de combat.”1 Violence and war-related themes are not, however, exclusive to the later stages of French Renaissance poetry. As early as 1549, Joachim Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse presents the struggle for domination among a number of national literatures, both classical and contemporary, as a war like any other. In the Deffence, recognized today as the manifesto for Renaissance literature in France, Du Bellay fires the opening volley in a cultural and linguistic war on the dominance of Latin as the lingua franca of learned discourse in favor of the vernacular, in particular French, which was already establishing itself as the language of bureaucracy. Du Bellay’s extensive use of war-related vocabulary mirrors that of the oftforgotten genre of the bella grammaticalia which had prospered across Europe a generation or two earlier. Indeed, Du Bellay’s push for the dominance and glorification of the French vernacular intensifies those earlier representations of linguistic wars for the acceptance of a vernacular erudition and the creation of national literatures.2 For Du Bellay, national identity and the use of the vernacular are indissolubly linked, and “the glory of the Romans lies no less (as someone said) in the expansion of their language than of their borders.”3 He claims that the comprehensiveness of Roman imperialism “sought not only to subjugate but to render other nations vile and abject,” which led not only to military subjugation but also to cultural and linguistic subjugation.4 The latter was responsible in turn for the degradation of the French language.5 Arguing that France is at least equal, if not superior to other nations, Du Bellay calls upon French writers to imitate the good Greek and Roman authors but in their own vernacular.6 The text ends with a veritable war cry, an exhortation to produce a “Gallic Hercules” who would draw others to him with a chain attached to his tongue.7 But, as François Cornilliat has skillfully demonstrated, what is unique about Du Bellay’s call to arms is that it targets poetry specifically.8 It is poetry that inspired his declaration of cultural war and poetry that will serve as his primary weapon in that war. Cornilliat argues that Du Bellay’s substitution of “poesie” https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-006

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in the second book of the Deffence (dedicated to poetry) where “langue” stood in the first book (dedicated to the nature and progress of language) belies his declaration that his main goal is the defense and improvement of the French language.9 Indeed Cornilliat contends that Du Bellay is using the “French language as a lever to advance the cause of French poetry” and that what “sets Deffence apart is implying the advancement of poetry’s own position within the French culture of discourse, as a sine qua non condition to the elevation of French itself – including French prose.”10 The Deffence undoubtedly served as an inspiration for Du Bellay’s peers, yet there is still the question of the inspiration for the Deffence itself. Composed in response to Sébillet’s 1548 Art poétique, the Deffence has long been believed to have been inspired by and even copied from Speroni’s 1542 Dialogo delle lingue.11 However, there is a fundamental difference between the two texts. The various speakers of Speroni’s text discuss the suitability of Greek, Latin, medieval Tuscan, and contemporary Italian dialects for literary composition and conclude that they represent four separate and unrelated literary systems. Du Bellay, on the other hand, proposes a fluid and active relationship among the Classical, Italian, and French traditions through the appropriation of ancient and foreign models into new French texts. It is the notion of appropriation in the Deffence which transforms the treatise into an instrument of war in the battle for French cultural dominance. The tradition of the bellum grammaticale certainly played a role, but Du Bellay’s text echoes themes which harken back as far as Ovid’s Ars Amatoria (in which the poet likens love to military service) as well as to Petrarch, whose Rime sparse inspired love poetry of the French Renaissance. In her recent book, Love’s Wounds: Violence and the Politics of Poetry in Early Modern France, Cynthia Nazarian includes Du Bellay and Maurice Scève in a list of Petrarchan poets who actively transformed love poetry into a tool for defining a nation. Nazarian maintains that by interweaving political and amorous poems Scève paves the way for the politicization of Petrarchan poetry and ushers in an era of sonnet sequences with notably more violent imagery.12 In Du Bellay, too, she finds the necessary elements of what she terms “countersovereignty”: “elaborate violence, political themes, and an oppositional structure pitting abject poet against all-powerful Beloved.”13 Love’s Wounds focuses on the poet’s countersovereign voice, one which not only survives despite extreme duress but which also protests and launches political critiques. Although Nazarian is correct in asserting that Du Bellay’s “L’Olive showcases poetry as combat,” her contention that the sonnet sequence and La Deffence both operate “through an omnipresent, multivalent language of war, combat, and pillage” can be seen differently.14 Certainly, the beloved of L’Olive

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is described from time to time as a warrior who can even be quite ruthless, and the love experience in L’Olive is described as a “battle” in which the God of Love is “victorious.”15 In the extreme case of sonnet 34, the war vocabulary is so extensive that the poet appears as a casualty of conquest and no mention of love is made at all. Yet bellicose language and militaristic themes do not dominate in L’Olive as they do in the manifesto or in the poetry of Scève and Ronsard, who regularly employ metaphors and mythologies of war to describe their love. Instead, as made evident in the opening poem of the collection, “Au Lecteur,” Du Bellay focuses on expressing admiration for his poetic predecessors and his love of creating his own work. The current discussion will expand upon Nazarian’s astute pairing of the beloved’s cruelty and the sovereign’s indifference on the one hand and the poet’s rebellion and political insurgency on the other to explore the idea that Scève and Ronsard’s individualized use of the war metaphor in their love poetry could be, respectively, the inspiration for and the response to Du Bellay’s advocacy of a cultural imperialism and exhortation to the French to invade and pillage other cultures in order to perfect their own. Maurice Scève, the poet responsible for the Petrarchan vogue in French poetry, pushes past Petrarch’s antithetical love experience to present his love for Délie as a violent battle destined to end in death. The discussion here will focus on Scève’s use of the war metaphor in the Délie as the inspiration for the Deffence et illustration de la langue francoyse. I will also consider the degree to which Ronsard takes up Du Bellay’s challenge as laid out in the Deffence to create a superior poetry based on the reworking of older texts.16

Scève’s Délie: The first French version of Petrarch’s “Sweet Warrior” In his canzoniere, Petrarch often refers to his life on earth as a “war” and constantly looks forward to the peace he will find in the next life.17 Moreover, he frequently uses words of war to describe his love experience.18 In sonnet 164, war becomes a metaphor for the constant back and forth between emotional extremes which defines the love experience.19 To love is to suffer, to be torn between physical and emotional extremes as if living through a war. Indeed, Petrarch’s “state of war,” symptomatic of love’s antithetical nature, is a hallmark of his Rime sparse, and poem 134 of that work is particularly effective in describing the effect that the conflicting states of love have on the lover.20 In fact, the discord between lover and beloved so prevalent in European love poetry is inspired by Petrarch’s Rime sparse in which Laura is described as

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a “sweet warrior” or as “my dear enemy.”21 Petrarch’s bellicose woman who attacks with her eyes and plunges the poet into a state of war pervades Renaissance love poetry under various pseudonyms, such as Baïf’s “belle ennemie” (beautiful enemy), Desportes “douce adversaire” (sweet adversary), Du Bellay’s “doulce guerriere” (sweet warrior), or Scève’s “doulce ennemye” (sweet enemy).22 Scève’s Délie expands the Rime sparse’s war metaphors and describes love as a struggle between war and peace.23 Often the metaphors are merely mentioned in passing. Love is described as a “doulce bataille” (sweet battle) (78.1), “ma guerre immortelle” (my immortal war) (245.4), or “l’obscure guerre” (obscure war) (358.3); the lady’s beauty is the first sweet tyrant (“fut premier, et doulx tyrant”) (306.1). At other times the metaphor extends throughout the entire poem. For example, Dizain 447, which is paired with the fiftieth and final woodcut engraving, Le Tumbeau et les chandeliers, and its motto, “Après la mort ma guerre encore me suit,” relies on Aristotelian physics of elements according to which the four classical elements – earth, fire, water, and air – have a natural affinity for or aversion to one another.24 The contrary elements of fire and water, the “greatest adversaries” (4), constitute the “harsh battle” (8) waged against the poet. Yet he is not a victim of war; instead he is able to transcend death and the paradoxical love experience, as represented by the aversion between fire and water, by transcribing his love experience in a book of poetry wherein he will “cry and burn” for Délie’s love long after he has died.25 Other poems of the Délie support the Petrarchan notion of the never-ending war in which the poet is engaged.26 The poet will relive another Trojan War, but without recovering his Helen. Not all poems are so discouraging, however. As with Petrarch, the poet sometimes welcomes death (and the afterlife) as a relief from his embattled existence.27 After a lifetime of relentless war, death provides the peace which the poet has long been seeking.28 Such examples are far less common in Scève’s work than in the Rime sparse, and more often than not, death does not provide the poet-lover with relief or access to Heaven, but is merely another step, repeated multiple times, in the war of love.29 For Scève, love is indomitable and any attempt on the poet’s part to destroy Cupid also leads to his own destruction. Such a morbid approach to love is, however, no surprise to the attentive reader as the opening poem of the Délie, Scève’s book of love poetry, announces that the volume discusses the deaths (plural) that Délie renewed in him rather than Cupid or Venus.30 In poem 392 Scève again describes love as a war of the elements waged inside him, but this time he relies heavily on medical theories “indicating” that an imbalance of elements or of humors would lead to illness and even to death. Melancholy, or lovesickness, for example, results from an excess of black bile.

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The poet declares that if the elements are at odds (1) then there will be an imbalance (2) and blames Délie for this imbalance, claiming that she does not respect the natural laws (5) and is the cause of his “immortal battle” (7). Just when it seems as if all is calm and in order, Délie opposes the natural harmony (5).31 In a vicious cycle, Délie is sweet and calm (8), and apparently working to unite with her lover (9) only to attack him one line later, when her temperament again becomes bellicose and disdainful. Despite the introduction of medieval medical theories, the poem presents traditional metaphors of the relationship between love and war – the love experience as a “battle” (7) and the lady herself as a warrior (10). Scève underscores that love and war are closely aligned because the lady can conquer the poet just as the enemy does his adversary (1). In many poems, Délie is presented as a huntress like her namesake, Diana, but rather than portraying her with a bow, Scève relies on the classical allusion of a seductress who uses her eyes to ensnare her prey; the eyebrows serve as the bows which release arrows from the eyes. The portrayal of Délie as huntress gradually transforms into one of Délie as warrior who vanquishes her enemy, much as she appears in dizain 110. The poet is so overcome by the attack of the lady’s eyes (6, 8), engaged in “treasonous combat” (5), that he surrenders and suffers in silence (9–10). The verb vaincre, found in line 3, is used in other poems to describe the power of the lady’s eyes (93.3) or of love itself (140.3). Délie thus becomes a lethal force. Ultimately victorious over all whom she encounters, Délie assures her perpetual glory by killing her lovers. The transition from mythological huntress to executioner is made clear in the final two lines of dizain 392. Elsewhere in the Délie, however, the glory garnered by the military victory over the beloved is equated with the glory conferred upon the couple through the lover’s poetry. This commonplace Renaissance comparison is derived from Horace’s Odes 3.30, in which he touted the superior durability of his poetry compared to any monument and declared victory in the musical (i.e. poetry) competitions at Delphi’s Pythian games.32 In dizain 249 and its corresponding emblem 28, “Mon travail donne à deux gloire,” Scève similarly argues that his “travail” (meaning work and suffering) brings glory to both poet and beloved.33 It is also interesting to note that Horace’s claim to fame in his poem is that he first brought Aeolian verse to Italian measures.34 Du Bellay’s Deffence suggests that bringing Latin and Italian verse to French measures will allow the French to acquire that same glory from their rivals. Scève, though, predates the Deffence and for him, it is Délie’s bellicose nature and his subsequent suffering which lead to each of their glory, her military prowess and his poetic skill.

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In some poems like 311, Délie is presented as a tyrant (3) crueler than any other. After having captured his heart, she does not take pity on the poet and free his heart from oppression (4–5), but rather, as his “capital adversary” (6), removes any possibility of hope (7). In these situations, the lover is at the mercy not only of the beloved’s widely varying reactions but is also a victim of his own hopefulness. Such moments of hope are as much the poet’s enemy as the lady herself and its two most common sources – memories and dreams – are often identified in the Délie as moments of war. Recollections of pleasurable time spent with Délie present fictional versions of reality.35 Although these brief moments of hope allow the poet to recover temporarily from Délie’s rejection or absence, in the end they only lead to further suffering when they are later proven false. The poet recognizes the role he plays in his own demise: by allowing himself to believe Délie’s fleeting promises of hope he subsequently becomes her prisoner-of-war, so to speak. For example, in dizain 222, the poet admits that by permitting himself to believe Délie (10) and her promise of peace (8) and continuing to believe her even when experience has shown him otherwise, he proves easy to deceive (9) and becomes a martyr (6) trapped in a cycle of victory and defeat (1). The moments of hopefulness are but pyrrhic victories. Ultimately, the beloved’s mercy is a “cruel enemy” (4), for in the end the poet is always defeated in love. Dizain 109 is particularly interesting because, while it presents the lady as an invincible warrior, it also speaks to her being confused with the goddess of love which was a common motif in Neo-Latin epigrams. Mars, thinking, Délie is Venus, wants to kiss her, but she is a stronger opponent and, armed with Mars’s own smoking sword (4), declares that she is going to wage such a strong war (9) that she will defeat all others (10). Here in particular, the Délie seems to anticipate the precepts laid out in the Deffence: Scève translates the Italian sonnet into a French form (the dizain), adds Alciato-inspired emblems to his text, and clearly situates his poem in Lyon, capital of the French Renaissance (e.g. Délie 95, 208, 385, 395). But above all, the persistent war references demonstrate the Délie’s distinctly more violent imagery in comparison to Petrarch’s Canzoniere. For example, Scève’s use of the word “enfumé” (smoking) (4), meaning to “smoke with the enemy’s blood,” is worthy of note. Although Aubigné uses the term often in Les Tragiques, his later account of the Wars of Religion, as for example “Les Fers” and “Jugement,” Scève is unique in applying it to love poetry.36 Indeed, Scève’s concomitant reliance upon and reimagining of Petrarch’s canzoniere defend and illustrate the French vernacular avant la lettre.

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Ronsard: From Love Warrior to Social Reformer In the Délie, the poet participates in a battle for love, fighting to win over his beloved. Ronsard, on the other hand, significantly decreases the violent references. He instead borrows and expands upon the medieval Hercule amoureux and the Deffence’s central image of the Gallic Hercules highlighting the poet as a warrior for the national cause of French domination. Like Scève, Ronsard focuses on violence and occasionally employs war-inspired vocabulary to describe his experience of love, labelling love a traitor or a villain and advertising his verse as a demonstration of how love conquers as a warrior might.37 As Denizot notes, Ronsard makes a concerted effort from the very first pages of the Amours to underscore the significance of his poetry which finds its source in “the violence of the emotions which motivate it.”38 The themes are further developed in the Sonnets pour Hélène where Ronsard portrays the lover as a knight, praises and blames Hélène as a guerrière, and judges war and love as one and the same.39 But such vocabulary is finally far less evident in Ronsard’s works than in Scève’s. It is for this reason that Nazarian does not include Ronsard in her study. In her introduction she explains that Ronsard and others were excluded because she has “not yet found in their Petrarchan sequences all of the necessary elements of countersovereignty: elaborate violence, political themes, and an oppositional structure pitting abject poet against all-powerful Beloved.”40 Here, however, the focus is on Ronsard’s relationship to the Deffence, and thus the degree of violence and the political power struggles are not a primary consideration. Ronsard undoubtedly wrote both of violence and wars (the Discours des misères de ce temps and La Franciade, for example), but the violence and wars to which Ronsard makes reference are usually in service of a national cause, rather than a personal one. In his discussion of the Sonnets pour Hélène, Alan Nagel argues that “the Trojan myth and its joining of love and war are difficult to reconcile with Ronsard’s including, especially in the second edition of the book, many poems that comment bluntly on the civil wars.”41 Yet it could be argued that Helen’s double association with love and war provides Ronsard with a perfect response to the Deffence. He is able to take a classical work on war, the Iliad, and imitate it in French in a different context (love).42 As Du Bellay recommends in the Deffence, Ronsard uses the French language to advance French poetry, for, as Cornilliat explains, “it is neither by translating nor by applying recipes that poetry (and therefore language) will progress, but by reading (in their original languages) and imitating (in French) a host of Greek, Latin, and Italian poets.”43 Rather than persistent and prolonged violence, Ronsard’s Sonnets pour Hélène focus more broadly on mythological stories of war, in particular that of Helen of Troy. But what better way to

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promote French literature and vernacular and demonstrate its superiority than by writing Petrarchan-style poems which feature re-imagined classical figures such as Helen of Troy, Hercule amoureux, and the Gallic Hercules? In redefining the late medieval Hercule amoureux, Ronsard subordinates violence to poetry. Borrowing from texts like the Roman de la Rose and Bersuire’s Ovide moralisé, Ronsard discards the classical view of Hercules as a proud, conquering warrior and presents him instead as a dying lover. Then, heeding Du Bellay’s recommendation, the poet explicitly links the traditional myth of the hero’s love for the young maiden named Iole (mentioned in Petrarch’s Triumphs) with the Tuscan poet’s love for Laura in “Elegie à Muret.” In this ancillary piece to Les Amours 1552, the “error” (3) that makes the Theban warrior divert from his heroic path at the beginning of the elegy is an obvious allusion to Petrarch’s “errore mio” (Rime 1.4). Likewise the reference to the universal power of Cupid’s arrows as the cause of Hercules’s fall reproduced Petrarch’s arrow of love which delivers the fatal blow and which initiated the moment of inamoramento for Petrarch.44 The allusions to the Canzoniere continue in the following stanzas with a depiction of a lovesick Hercules at the mercy of love’s extreme states, burning and shivering as a consequence of his “fiévre amoureuse” (56) and losing his voice in the presence of his beloved’s face.45 In order to stress the superiority of love over heroic exploits, Ronsard enumerates the hero’s labors in an exhaustive list (14–25) the length of which reflects the powerlessness that Hercules feels in the face of love. The indomitable classical warrior experiences loss for the first time as Ronsard wins a battle for the French by re-purposing both classical and Italian texts. Indeed, as if to confirm his adherence to Du Bellay’s plan for revitalizing French literature and asserting its dominance, Ronsard also extensively develops the figure of the Gallic Hercules, presenting him as an Orpheus-like poet. The figure, which serves as the final war cry in Du Bellay’s manifesto, was prominent in Alciato’s Emblematum Liber and further popularized by Aneau’s translation of that work appearing in the same year as the Deffence. Hercules was, after all, the perfect symbol for the Pléiade writers who aimed to conquer their literary enemies through superior eloquence: “French humanists and writers, many of whom doubted the veracity of the Gallic Hercules myth, nevertheless saw in it a ready-made literary and artistic device to glorify their language, their literature, and their monarchy.”46 In Greek mythology, Hercules is known primarily for his indomitable strength and for his role as the deciding factor in the triumphant victory of the Olympians over the giants. Traditionally, his physical power is offset by a lack of intelligence. The “Gallic Hercules,” first presented in Lucian’s Heracles, is, however, a more balanced figure, and for Ronsard, this image of the Gallic Hercules would become essential.47 Hallowell

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argues that although the only explicit reference to the Gallic Hercules in Ronsard’s work is found in the 1579 “Panégyrique de la renommé” dedicated to Henri III, the poet frequently alluded to the myth.48 The most significant of the indirect references to Hercules is that found in Ronsard’s 1550 Odes, the first practical illustration of the principles laid out by Du Bellay in the Deffence the year before. Here Ronsard compares his revered teacher Dorat to the mythological figure.49 Ronsard extends the Gallic Hercules’s reputation for superior eloquence and transforms him into a symbol for the poet, to whom he cedes a central position not only as educator but also as social reformer. Moreover, Hallowell’s list can be augmented by adding Ronsard’s 1569 mythological hymn entitled “Hylas,” wherein the reimagined Theban warrior appears as a superhuman figure who teaches the ancient French the virtues of leading a civilized life and the values of society, religion, and hard work.50 In contradistinction to the violent and ruthless French warrior described by Du Bellay, Ronsard’s Hercules is freed of all of his bellicose associations. Nevertheless, the two figures are similar in their mission – their writings and teachings will better the French language and its reputation. The war Ronsard declares against the Ancients is for the most part fairly subtle, but his borrowing and reimagining of the Gallic Hercules from the conclusion of the Deffence both continues the Petrarchan tradition of linking war and love (Hercule amoureux) and combines it with the rarer classical tradition which conferred upon Hercules a superior eloquence. In Ronsard’s work, Du Bellay’s poet warrior is presented as less violent and is instead linked to social reform. Ronsard’s successors writing during the Wars of Religion adopt this version of Gallic Hercules and model themselves after it. As opposed to the violent figure of DuBellay’s conclusion, they use their pens to deplore violence and present themselves as poètes engagés – yearning and fighting for a future nation marked by strength rather than divisiveness.

Birth of a National Literature amidst Political and Religious Turmoil Ultimately, the Deffence’s advocacy of a cultural imperialism and exhortation to invade and pillage other cultures, its declaration of war on Classical and Italian literature, and its call to arms for all writers reflected the turbulent times in which it was composed and the need for national redefinition.51 Given Scève’s profound influence on the writers of the Pléiade in general and his role as initiator of the Petrarchan craze in French poetry in particular, it does not

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seem at all implausible that Du Bellay might have had Scève’s originality in mind when drafting the Deffence and that the imagery of battle, invasion, and usurpation intentionally mimics Scève’s emphasis on that trope.52 As for Ronsard, his fixation on crafting an enduring legacy was notorious, and it is thus not difficult to believe that he would have employed that same war vocabulary and the Hercules figure highlighted in the Deffence to emphasize his own innovation and contribution to French literature. After all, both the political arena and the love experience are rooted in power struggles. For just as Du Bellay complained in the Deffence that the Romans undervalued and subjugated the French, so too is the Petrarchan lover underappreciated and dismissed by his beloved. Finally, Ronsard’s redefinition of a less violent Gallic Hercules who serves as social reformer is reminiscent of his successors writing during the Wars of Religion. These “militant poets” as Charbonnier calls them, write to free themselves from the ties binding them to their Ancient models and present the poet as a political warrior fighting both for the French vernacular and for his country. For example, Aubigné laments France’s civil unrest and employs a rhetoric of violence to “jolt his readers out of complacency and into action for the Protestant cause,” whereas Malherbe instead ignores the violence and opts to dream and imagine a future peace.53 Despite personal and political turmoil, the French lyric voice of the sixteenth century cannot be silenced – it fights back against political unrest, emotional distress, and physical destruction, and it creates a lasting monument to the nation. Relying on their Herculean eloquence, these militant poets are able to stand against intolerance and injustice and to create a better France.

Endnotes 1.

2. 3.

“The purely French qualities of our poetry derive, for the most part, from works of combat.” François Charbonnier, La poésie française et les guerres de religion (1560–1574). Étude historique et littéraire sur la poésie militante depuis la conjuration d’Amoise jusqu’à la mort de Charles IX (Paris: Champion, 1920), p. 470. With the exception of Petratch’s works, all translations are mine. Erik Butler, Bellum Grammaticale and the Rise of European Literature (London: Routledge, 2016), pp. 2–3. “[L]a gloire du peuple romain n’est moindre (comme a dit quel qu’un) en l’amplification de son langage, que de ses limites.” Joachim Du Bellay, La Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse, ed. Henri Chamard (Paris: Marcel Didier, 1948), 2.12, p. 183. Quotations from L’Olive come from Œuvres poétiques, vol. 1, edited by Daniel Aris & Françoise Joukovsky (Paris: Bordas, 1993).

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8.

9. 10. 11.

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“Qui tachoint non seulement à subjuguer, mais à rendre toutes autres nations viles & abjectes aupres d’eux.” Du Bellay, Deffence 1.2, p. 18. For an historical overview of the “world of letters” and its relation to the political struggles of our modern world, see Pascale Casanova’s The World Republic of Letters, trans. M. B. DeBevoise (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). “Pourquoy donques sommes nous si grands admirateurs d’autruy? Pourquoy sommes nous tant iniques à nous mesmes? Pourquoy mandions nous les Langues etrangeres comme si nous avions honte d’user de la nostre?” (Why are we such great admirers of others? Why are we so inimical to ourselves? Why do we demand foreign languages as if we were ashamed to use our own?) Deffence 2.12, p. 186. “Or sommes nous, la grace à Dieu, par beaucoup de perilz & de flotz etrangers, renduz au port, à seureté. Nous avons echappé du milieu des Grecz, & par les scadrons Romains penetré jusques au seing de la tant desirée France. La donq’, Francoys, marchez couraigeusement vers cete superbe cité Romaine: & des serves depouilles d’elle (comme vous avez fait plus d’une fois) ornez voz temples & autelz.. . .Donnez en cete Grece menteresse, & y semez encor’ un coup la fameuse nation des Gallogrecz. Pillez moy sans conscience les sacrez thesors de ce temple Delphique.. . .Vous souvienne de votre ancienne Marseille, secondes Athenes, & de votre Hercule gallique, tirant les peuples apres luy par leurs oreilles, avecques une chesne attachée à sa langue.” (Yet we are, thanks to God, through many perils and foreign swells, delivered to the port safely. We have escaped from the middle of the Greeks and have penetrated the Roman squadrons until the reaching the heart of the greatly desired France. So, French citizens, walk courageously to this superb Roman city: with her serfs’ spoils [as you have done more than once] adorn your temples and altars.. . .Attack that lying Greece, and sow there once again the famous nation of the Gallo-Greeks. Pillage for me without conscience the sacred treasures of the Delphic temple.. . .Remember your old Marseille, second Athens, and your Gallic Hercules, pulling the people behind him by their ears, with a chain attached to his tongue.) Du Bellay, Deffence 2, Conclusion of the whole work, pp. 195–97. In all cases, emphasis is mine. François Cornilliat, “From ‘Defense and Illustration’ to ‘Dishonor and Bastardization’: Joachim Du Bellay on Language and Poetry (1549),” Modern Language Notes 130, no. 4 (2015), pp. 730–56. “Deffence de notre Langue, l’ornement & amplification d’icelle” (defense of our language, its embellishment and expansion). Deffence 2.12, p. 182. Cornilliat, “From ‘Defense and Illustration’ to ‘Dishonor and Bastardization,’” pp. 740–42. Pierre Villey-Desmerets was the first to describe Du Bellay’s text as a “borrowing” (Les sources italiennes de la ‘Deffence et illustration’ de Joachim du Bellay [Paris: Champion, 1908], p. 101). Cynthia Nazarian, Love’s Wounds: Violence and the Politics of Poetry in Early Modern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2016), p. 75. Nazarian, Love’s Wounds, p. 3. Nazarian, Love’s Wounds, pp. 75–77. For example: “celle qui me fait guerre” (she who declares war on me) in Olive 43.6 and “doulce guerriere” (sweet warrior) in Olive 70.2 and “ceste mienne guerriere, / Qui a trop

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17.

18. 19.

20.

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plus, que Mars, de cruauté” (this warrior of mine, / Who has far more cruelty than Mars), Olive 52.15–16; “bataille,” Olive 29.11, and “vainqueur,” Olive 56.1. Nazarian views the violence as a mark of the politicization of poetry, whereas Jerry Nash has argued the battles described within the Délie are emblematic of the poet’s aesthetic struggle (The Love Aesthetics of Maurice Scève [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991], pp. 20–21), and Michael Giordano (Art of Meditation and the French Renaissance Love Lyric [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010], pp. 57, 72) and Christine Raffini (The Second Sequence in Maurice Scève’s Délie: A Study of Numerological Composition in the Renaissance [Birmingham, AL: Summa Publications, 1989], p.18) contend that they are a metaphor for the author’s divided self, a notion not dissimilar to Nazarian’s “selfdissecting poet” who exhibits both vulnerability and agency. See Love’s Wounds, p. 134. See in particular Rime 127.103, 365.9, and 268.61. Quotations in Italian and English come from Durling’s edition of the Rime Sparse, Petrarch’s Lyric Poems: The Rime Sparse and Other Lyrics, trans. Robert M. Durling (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). See Rime 96.2, 127.33, 149.13, 220.13, and 347.12. “Vegghio, penso, ardo, piango; et chi mi sface sempre m’è inanzi per mia dolce pena: Guerra è ‘l mio stato, d’ira e di duol piena, et sol di lei pensando ò qualche pace.” (I am awake, I think, I burn, I weep; and she who destroys me is always before me, to my sweet pain: war is my state, full of sorrow and suffering, and only thinking of her do I have any peace.) Petrarch, Rime 164.5–8, p. 310. “Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra; e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio; et volo sopra ‘l cielo, et giaccio in terra; Sparse et nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio. Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra, né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio; et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra, né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio. Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido; et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita; et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui. Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido; egualmente mi spiace morte et vita: in questo stato son, Donna, per vui.” (Peace I do not find, and I have no wish to make war; and I fear and hope, and burn and am of ice; and I fly above the heavens and lie on the ground; and I grasp nothing and embrace all the world. One has me in prison who neither opens nor locks, neither keeps me for his own nor unties the bonds; and Love does not kill and does not unchain me, he neither wishes me alive nor frees me from the tangle. I see without eyes, and I have no tongue and yet cry out; and I wish to perish and I ask for help; and I hate myself and love another. I feed on pain, weeping I laugh; equally displeasing to me are death and life. In this state am I, Lady, on account of you.) Petrarch, Petrarch’s Lyric Poems, p. 272. According to Mazzotta, such oxymora are typical not only of the Rime sparse, but of

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23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

33.

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Petrarch’s entire body of poetry and indicate internal conflict: “We are all made quickly aware by even the hastiest perusal of his lexicon of his radical understanding of his existence as a tangle of conflicts, wars, and struggles. Accordingly, the stylistic oxymora of his poetry – the living death which is love, the contrary winds of his passion – have been duly recorded by critics as the emblem of the wounds scarring the inner realm of the poet’s self.” Guiseppe Mazotta, The Worlds of Petrarch (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993), p. 35. “Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera,” Petrarch, Rime 21.1 and “la dolce mia nemica,” 73.29, 125.45, 179.2, and 254.2. Baïf’s “belle ennemie” (beautiful enemy) (Francine, “Oh ma belle ennemie et pourquoi tellement,” 1); Desportes “douce adversaire” (sweet adversary) (Cléonice 24.1–4); Du Bellay’s “doulce guerriere” (sweet warrior) (Olive 70.2); or Scève’s “doulce ennemye” (sweet enemy) (Délie 197.1). Jean-Antoine de Baïf, Francine, in Quatre libres de l’amour de Francine, ed. Ernesta Caldarini (Geneva: Droz, 1966); Philippe Desportes, Cléonice: dernières amours, ed. Victor E. Graham (Geneva: Droz, 1962); Maurice Scève, Delie: Object de Plus Haulte Vertu, ed. Gérard Defaux (Geneva: Droz, 2004). “Ainsi tu fais (quand te vient a plaisir) / De guerre paix, et de celle paix guerre” (Thus you make [when it pleases you] / Peace from war, and from that peace war). Scève, Délie 309.9–10. “After death my war still follows me.” Emphasis mine, for this citation and the others that follow. Scève, Délie 447.3, 8 and 10. In poem 167.5–8, the poet describes his love for Délie as an endless battle (5–6) akin to the Trojan War (7) which results in the loss of his booty (8). “Doncques, pour paix a ma guerre acquerir” (So, to acquire peace for my war). Scève, Délie 446.7. “Car si vivant sur terre, et soubz les cieulx, / Tu m’as tousjours esté guerre implacable, / Apres la mort en ce lieu precieux, / Tu me seras, du moins, paix amyable” (For if living on earth, and beneath the heavens, / You were always pitiless war, / After death in this precious place, / For me, at least, you will be friendly peace). Scève, Délie 408.7–10. “Se laissant vaincre aux plus forcez combas. / Voicy la fraulde, ô archier invincible, / Quand je te cuyde abatre, je m’abas” (Allowing oneself to vanquish in the most violent combat. / Here is the deception, oh invincible archer, / When I believe I’m destroying you, I destroy myself). Scève, Délie 213.8–10. “Non de Venus les ardentz estincelles, / Et moins les traits, desquels Cupido tire: / Mais bien les mortz, qu’en moy tu renovelles / Je t’ay voulu en cest Oeuvre descrire” (Not the scorching sparks of Venus, / And less the arrows Cupid shoots: / But those deaths you renew in me / I wished to describe to you in this Work). Scève, Délie introductory huitain, lines 1–4. “Ensemble” (3), “amys” (3), “union” (4). “Exegi monumentum aere perennius” (I have built a monument more lasting than bronze). Horace, Odes, trans. Niall Rudd (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 3.30.1; “et mihi Delphica lauro cinge volens, Melphomene, comam” (and with the Delphian laurel, / Melphomene, willingly crown my head). Horace, Odes 3.30.15–6. “Que mon travail sans cesser angoissant, / Et tressuant a si haulte victoyre, / Augmente a deux double loyer croissant / A moy merite, a toy louange, et gloyre” (That my work endlessly agonizing, / and striving for such exalted victory, / Increases for both double

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36.

37.

38.

39.

40. 41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

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compensation, accumulating / For me merit, for you, praise, and glory). Scève, Délie 249.7–10. “Princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos / deduxisse modos” (Horace, Odes 3.30.13–4). “Ores la doubte, ores la foy me baille, / Renovellant en moy celle bataille” (Now doubt, now faith provide me, / Renewing in me this battle). Scève, Délie 68.6–7. “Lors que la nuict a l’esprit sa guerre ouvre” (When night declares war on my mind). Scève, Délie 385.3. Aubigné, Les Tragiques: “le sang fumant et chaud” (hot smoking blood), “Les Fers” 5.357; “le sang frais tout fumant” (fresh, smoking blood), “Jugement” 7.108; and “A l’heure que le ciel fume de sang et d’âmes” (At the hour when the sky smokes with blood and souls), “Les Fers” 5.937. Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, Les Tragiques, ed. Frank Lestringant (Paris: Gallimard, 1969). “Ce traistre, ce mechant” (That traitor, that villain), Pierre de Ronsard, Continuation des Amours 51.2, p. 202 and “Qui voudra voyr comme un Dieu me surmonte, / Comme il m’assault, comme il se fait vainqueur” (Who would like to see how a God conquers me / How he assaults me, as if declaring himself victor). Ronsard, Amours 1.1–2, p. 3. In Œuvres complètes, ed. Gustave Cohen, 2 vols., (Paris: Gallimard, 1950). “[Ronsard] s’empresse donc dès les premières pages des Amours, d’afficher la singularité de son projet, au sein de la tradition des canzoniere: la grandeur de sa poésie trouve sa source dans la violence des sentiments qui l’animent” ([Ronsard], from the first pages of Amours, quickly announces the originality of his project within the canzoniere tradition: the grandeur of his poetry finds its source in the violence of the emotions which inspired it). Véronique Denizot, “Les Devises en miroir: De la ‘folie’ de l’âme au style éperdu dans les Amours de 1552,” Nouvelle Revue du XVIe Siècle 16, no. 2 (1998), p. 267. For example, “du camp d’Amour pratique Chevalier” (from Love’s camp acting as knight), Sonnets Pour Hélène 1 13.9, p. 221, and “Les Guerres et l’Amour se semblent d’une chose: / Le veinqueur bien souvent du veincu est batu” (Wars and Love seem to be one in the same: / The victor quite often by the vanquished is beaten). Sonnets pour Hélène 1, 8.9–10, p. 219. Cassandre is also frequently referred to as a “warrior”: Les Amours 4.1 (p. 4), 51.2 (p. 23), 80.2 (p. 34), 122.4 (p. 51). Nazarian, Love’s Wounds, p. 5. Alan F. Nagel, “Literary and Historical Context in Ronsard’s Sonnets pour Hélène,” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 94, no. 3 (1979), p. 406. “Mon Colonnel [Amour] m’envoye à grands coups de carquois, / R’assieger Ilion pour conqueror Helene” (My colonel sends me with great blows of the quiver / To lay siege to Ilion again in order to conquer Helen). Ronsard, Sonnets pour Hélène 2, 10.13–14, p. 424. Cornilliat, “From ‘Defense and Illustration’ to ‘Dishonor and Bastardization,’” p. 742. “Colpo mortal là giù [che] discese / ove solea spuntarsi ogni saetta” (fatal blow [which] fell where every previous arrow had been blunted). Rime, 2.7–8. Ronsard, Œuvres Complètes I, “Élégie à Muret,” lines 33–72, pp. 100–1. Robert E. Hallowell, “Ronsard and the Gallic Hercules Myth,” Studies in the Renaissance 9 (1962), p. 250. The first reference to Gallic Hercules is found in Lucian: “We do not agree with you Greeks in thinking that Hermes is Eloquence. We identify Heracles with it, because he is far more powerful than Hermes. We consider that the real Heracles was a wise man who achieved everything by eloquence and applied persuasion as his principal force.” Lucian, Heracles, Vol. 1, trans. A. M. Harmon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913)pp. 65–67. For more on Ronsard and the Gallic Hercules figure, see Raymond

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52.

53.

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Trousson’s “Ronsard et la légende d’Hercule,” in Lumières de la Pléiade, ed. Roland Antonioli (Paris: Vrin, 1966), pp. 255–270; Isidore Silver, Ronsard and the Grecian Lyre, Part 1, vol. 2 of Ronsard and the Hellenic Renaissance in France (Geneva: Droz, 1985), especially chapter 22, “Ethics in Pindar and Ronsard: Terrestrial Bonds, Celestial Affinities.” Hallowell, “Ronsard and the Gallic Hercules Myth,” pp. 250–51. For example, in “Ode à Jean d’Orat” (1550), “Hymne du Treschretien Roy de France Henri II. de ce nom” (1555), “Hymne du tresillustre Prince Charles Cardinal de Lorrain” (1559), “Elegie au Seigneur l’Huillier” (1560). “Tant d’ames ne courent pas Apres Alcée là bas, Alors qu’horrible il accorde Les guerres desus sa chorde, Comme ta douce merveille Emmoncelle par milliers Un grand peuple d’écoliers Que tu tires par l’oreille.” (So many souls do not run After Alcaeus down there, Although horrible, he sings Of wars with his strings, As your sweet wonder Piles up by the thousands A large group of schoolchildren That you pull by the ear.) Ronsard, Œuvres Complètes 1, “Ode à Jean d’Aurat,” lines 29–36, p. 414. Ronsard, Œuvres Complètes 2, “Hylas,” lines 1–7 and 12–19, p. 381. In 1543, Henry VIII of England allied with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, against France and in the following years both parties took turns besieging northern and eastern France. These actions contributed to the prolongation of the inconclusive Italian war (1542–1546) pitting Francis I and Suleiman I against Charles V and Henry VIII. Ultimately, England and France declared war in 1549. In fact, critics have been able to pinpoint specific passages with Scèvian undertones in the Deffence. Cf. Henri Chamard, “Sur une page obscure de la ‘Deffence’,” Revue d’histoire littérature de la France IV (1897), 239; Verdun-Louis Saulnier, Maurice Scève: ca. 1500–1560 (Paris: Klicksieck, 1948), vol. 1, p. 380 and vol. 2, p. 160. Kjerstin Aukrust and Gro Bjǿrnerud Mo, “Mythologies of War and Peace in Malherbe’s and Aubigné’s Poetry,” in Allusions and Reflections: Greek and Roman Mythology in Renaissance Europe, ed. Elisabeth Wåghäll Nivre, p. 212. See also Kathleen Long’s essay in this volume “Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques” pp. 101–7) for more on Aubigné’s style.

Kathleen Perry Long

6 Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques Recent criticism has focused on polemical writing incited by the Wars of Religion in France.1 Other criticism has focused on the difficulty of representing the violence of these wars in historical and literary works.2 This scholarship raises questions about the relationships between these bodies of work and where they might or might not be distinguished from each other. Are these distinctions a matter of vocabulary, descriptive decorum, or context? By focusing on two versions of an historical event, Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s depiction of the massacre at Tours at the beginning of the Wars of Religion (1562) in both his Histoire universelle (1616–1620) and in his epic, Les Tragiques (first published in 1616), this essay proposes to explore the relationship between the literary representation of extreme violence and polemic. Aubigné’s deployment of elaborate poetic and rhetorical forms to heighten the emotional effect of these depictions in the latter work has been seen as polemical in his time and by modern scholars, and this polemical aspect is often read as undermining the literary quality of his work. But evidence from the epic itself suggests that the poet consciously chose to develop a polemical literary style that departed from traditional epic forms, one that certainly borrowed from Virgil, Ovid, and Lucan in particular, but relied on stylistic dissonances to create a jarring representation of the violence that informs epic writing.3

The Bitter New Style of Les Tragiques In the second book of Les Tragiques, “Princes,” Aubigné uses striking imagery to openly defy the royal edicts of pacification that enjoined silence concerning the past Wars of Religion in France: On dit qu’il faut couler les execrables choses Dans le puits de l’oubly et au encloses, Et que par les escrits le mal resuscité Infectera les moeurs de la posterité: Mais le vice n’a point pour mere la science, Et la vertu n’est pas fille de l’ignorance; https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-007

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Elle est le chaud fumier sous qui les ords pechez S’engraissent en croissant, ne sont arrachez, Et l’acier des vertus mesme intellectuelles Tranche et detruit l’erreur et l’histoire par elles. Mieux vaut à descouvert monstrer l’infection Avec sa puanteur et sa punition.4

The casual “on dit” belies that fact that this “on” is the King, in whose name and for whose pleasure the edicts of pacification that called for silencing of any mention of the religious wars fought between 1562 and 1598 were being promulgated. The violent contrast between this vague referent and the equally vague but infinitely more troubling “execrables choses” at the end of this line is mediated by the act of pouring (couler) these awful things away, “dans le puits de l’oubli.” This last word is a direct reference to the policy of oubliance, a policy of deliberate forgetting of events that took place during the Wars of Religion in France, masterfully analyzed in its cultural ramifications by Andrea Frisch.5 Aubigné evokes the injunction that such events should remain dead and buried, first stated in the Edict of Amboise of 1563: “Avons ordonné et ordonnons, entendons, voulons et nous plait, que toutes injures et offenses que l’iniquité du temps, et les occasions qui en sont survenues, ont pu faire naître entre nosdits sujets, et toutes autres choses passées et causées de ces présents tumultes, demeureront éteintes, comme mortes, ensevelies et non advenues.”6 This injunction is echoed in the Edict of Saint-Germain (1570) and is repeated in the Edicts of Boulogne (1573), Beaulieu (1576), and Bergerac (1577), as well as the Edict of Nantes in 1598. What these edicts themselves reveal is that the silencing of accounts of these wars did not in fact prevent further bloodshed and thus the necessity for further edicts, a fact that Aubigné emphasizes throughout his epic. In his use of the term “execrables,” Aubigné alludes to the eighty-sixth article of the Edict of Nantes, which allows exceptions to this silencing for “les cas execrables.”7 In this way, he authorizes himself to represent the violence of the religious conflicts of his time, at the same time as this exception explains some of the exaggeration involved in his representations. The greater the gravity of the events he is depicting, the more legitimate his acts of writing become. Aubigné also echoes the exhortation that events will remain “éteintes, comme mortes, ensevelies et non advenues” (extinguished, as if dead, buried, and never having happened) with the phrase “sepulcre encloses.” His reader already knows that Les Tragiques was born “dans le tombeau” (in the tomb) from the “Préface: l’Autheur à son livre” that precedes the epic, so the subsequent image of resuscitation, “que par les escrits le mal resuscité,” underscores the life that the royal edicts attempt to deny. At first, the poet seems to acknowledge the possibility of the violence of the wars spreading like a contagion

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to posterity, echoing the royal concern that, in order to stop the violence, all memory of it had to be wiped away. But as Barbara B. Diefendorf has pointed out, “Injury has a long memory,” and in two parallel verses separated from the notion of writing reviving evil by a strong “mais” (but), our author argues that vice is not the child of knowledge, any more than virtue is the daughter of ignorance.8 Theologically speaking, one might argue with this conclusion, but the poetic persona does not allow us the breathing space to think about the doctrinal ramifications of what he is saying. Rather, he launches into a vivid description of the effects of ignorance, calling it a fuming dung-heap, in which filthy sins fatten themselves while constantly growing larger (“Elle est le chaud fumier sous qui les ords pechez / S’engraissent en croissant”). He prefers the clean violence of intellectual virtues (“Et l’acier des vertus mesme intellectuelles / Tranche et detruit l’erreur”) and the revelation of the stinking infection, which will allow it to heal through the punishment of those who caused it. This brief passage presents in succinct manner Aubigné’s purpose in writing his epic. Truthful language will be violent, because it is representing the violence that others want to hide; and only this violent, truthful language can free us from the national infection of war and violence. Burying the truth about this violence merely perpetuates it, gives it a cover under which it can grow and spread like a stinking infection. He uses disgusting language to describe a problem that he sees as disgusting. Certainly, there is nothing new about vulgar or “low” language being used to satirize vices; one need only read the works of Rabelais to see how such language functions as a corrective to royal or ecclesiastical excess. Antónia Szabari sees this approach to language as putting “rhetorical pressure on decorum (‘dirty’) in order to hold up a utopian possibility to the reader,” and certainly this is at least in part what the poetic persona of Les Tragiques seems to be doing.9 What seems to disturb many critics is what Jean-Raymond Fanlo calls “l’hétérogénéité des moyens d’expression et de la discontinuité du discours dans les Tragiques,” heterogeneity and discontinuity that Fanlo himself sees as generative of new ways of writing.10 This discontinuity is evident in the contrast between the fuming dungheap and the cutting edge of intellectual virtue, which destroys corruption. One image is the stuff of satire, the other clean, virtuous, warrior-like material of epic. It is the juxtaposition of these jarringly different styles of writing that disturbs many critics of Les Tragiques, like Jacques Bailbé, who long for a generic purity that they will never find in this epic.11 This quote from “Princes” demonstrates that the fusion of these very divergent styles is a strategy adopted in the epic to underscore the authorial persona’s defiance of calls to decorum or even silence. This defiance has a profound religious and political motivation, as Aubigné recognizes the urgent

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need to represent the fading voices of the almost defeated Protestants.12 He compares their situation to that of the Waldensians in the opening passages of his Histoire universelle: “On se plaint que les histoires des Vaudois ont esté toutes falsifies. Que nous n’avons rien d’eux par leurs mains, mais par celles qui les ont persecutés. Il en faut mettre sur pieds ce qui se peut tirer des tenebres, tant pource que les Reformés veulent avoir relevé l’enseigne de ceux-là, comme aussi pource que ces peuples ruinez ont espandu par l’Europe les semences de ceux à qui plus ouvertement on peut attribuer la reformation.”13 It should not be surprising that themes evoked in Les Tragiques reappear in the Histoire universelle, as the composition of these two works was, if not simultaneous, overlapping. So, Aubigné justifies the writing of history from the Protestant perspective by alluding to these spiritual ancestors, using images of planting (as opposed to the tearing up of the weeds of corruption called for in “Princes”) and of bringing back history from the shadows of oblivion (in a way, literally raising these “ruined people” from the dead). What is striking is the more decorous and moderate language used in the historical (rather than epic) account of events; clearly, Aubigné sees the purpose and mode of historical writing as being far different from that of literary versions of history. This call to speak for the dead is reflected by his exhortation to represent Protestant history in a letter to Simon Goulart, the historian who continued Jean Crespin’s Histoire des martyrs: “Il est bien besoin que la posterité sache de [nos] nouvelles par nous-mesmes.”14 To his mind, to remain silent is to allow the Catholic victors of the Wars of Religion to tell only one side of the story. Indeed, Aubigné knew as he completed and revised his major works, Les Tragiques and his monumental Histoire universelle, that the Protestants in France were living on borrowed time. As he was writing his epic, the Wars of Religion were not really over; war kept breaking out here and there well into the seventeenth century. To his mind, the Protestants willing to negotiate with Marie de Médicis after the death of Henri IV, known as the prudents, were abandoning necessary safeguards for those of their religion in exchange for royal favor. He and the other fermes, who wanted to maintain the guarantees of the Edict of Nantes, were excluded from Court. For example, without the guarantee of their places de sûreté, fortified towns in which they could defend themselves in case of attack, they would be helpless against their Catholic enemies.15 Such fortified towns were first granted to the Protestants by the Edict of Saint Germain in 1570, which allowed for four of them: La Rochelle, Montauban, Cognac, La Charité. The Edict of Nantes granted Protestants control of one hundred and fifty locations. Eighty of these are lost by 1622, as the result of royal campaigns to reconquer Protestant strongholds; in many former places de sûreté, royal garrisons assure the suppression of Protestant independence.

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In 1629, after the conquest of La Rochelle by royal forces, the Edict of Alès decreed that walls of all fortified Protestant towns were to be demolished. Aubigné makes it clear in his criticism of the “prudents” who granted concessions concerning these fortified towns to the monarchy, thus undermining the protections of the Edict of Nantes, that he is all too aware of the risks involved. The threat of arrest by royal authorities after the publication of his Histoire universelle, completed in 1620, further convinced him of the danger that French Protestants faced.16 From his perspective, to obey the royal injunction to silence was to accept death. Les Tragiques is also a defiance of the epic genre and its justification of the genocidal violence foundational to ancient empires or modern nations. In fact, one of the predominant themes throughout the book “Princes” is the corrupt nature of the state founded upon violence: Je veux, à coups de traits de la vive lumiere, Crever l’enflé Python au creux de sa tasniere, Je veux ouvrir au vent l’averne vicieux, Qui d’air empoisonné fasse noircir les cieux, Percer de ses infects les pestes et les roignes, Ouvrir les fonds hideux, les horribles charongnes Des sepulchres blanchis: ceux qui verront ceci, En bouchant les nazeaux, fronçeront le sourcy.17

His aim is to shock and disgust, in order to reveal the lurking evil that threatens everyone and everything. What this exordium for the second book of the epic reveals is awareness that the injunction to silence and forgetting is a silence about the true nature of these wars and a forgetting that these wars pitted brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. Certainly, others are speaking and writing about these things that they are not supposed to mention, but they are not condemned because they make these events look glorious: Vous qui avez donné ce subject à ma plume, Vous-mesmes qui avez porté sur mon enclume Ce foudre rougissant aceré de fureur, Lisez-le, vous aurez horreur de vostre horreur: Non-pas que j’aye espoir qu’une pudicque honte Vos pasles fronts de chiens par verguogne surmonte: La honte se perdit, vostre coeur fut taché De la pasle impudence, en aymant le peché. Car vous donnez tel lustre à voz noires ordures, Qu’en fascinant voz yeux elles vous semblent pures: J’en ay rougi pour vous, quand l’acier de mes vers Burinoit vostre histoire aux yeux de l’univers, Subject, stylle inconnu…18

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The poet must invent a new style to express the horrors of these wars, a style and words appropriate to the situation. He feels compelled to do this because all other versions have ennobled the conflicts, made war seem worthy. This passage already presents the style it calls for, contrasting the “luster” of the epic style with the “dark filth” that it represents; what the poetic persona proposes to do, then, is to use this dissonance as a device to underscore the contrast between the decorum his critics call for and the grotesque nature of the violence they are representing. This new style is certainly not a “sweet new style,” but a bitter one, as the poet suggests: Si quelqu’un me reprend que mes vers eschauffez Ne sont rien que de meurtre et de sang estoffez, Qu’on n’y lit que fureur, que massacre, que rage, Qu’horreur, mal-heur, poison, trahison et carnage: Je luy responds, ami, ces mots que tu reprends, Sont les vocables d’art de ce que j’entreprens, Les flatteurs de l’amour ne chantent que leurs vices, Que vocables choisis à peindre les delices, Que miel, que ris, que jeux, amours, et passe-temps, ... ... ... ... . Ce siecle autre en ses moeurs demande un autre style: Cueillons des fruicts amers desquels il est fertile.19

These passages suggest the conscious cultivation of a new style, one that contrasts with the sweetness of love poetry in particular. This call for a new style echoes Dante’s turn towards what he called his rime petrose, seen by the poet himself as a more virile mode of writing and well-known among sixteenthcentury French poets.20 But Aubigné is not seeking to imitate Dante’s more virile style, of which he would have been well aware; rather, he seeks something completely different, jarring, irregular, to unsettle his readers and evoke the terrors of war. This more bitter style also contrasts with the more neutral style of his Histoire universelle, as he makes clear in a letter: “Je vous prie de ne craindre point de moy que je me sente de la violence des vers, ny de la liberté de la jeunesse. Il n’y a massacres perfides, ny defaveurs, ny mesmes la Sainct Barthelemy, qui puisse arracher de ma plume les mots de cruauté, ny seulement de rigueur, tant j’observe l’equanimité de l’Historien.”21 On the one hand, this passage does betray itself, in essence saying that which the author is not permitted to say, even while promising not to say it, in a convoluted form of preterition. On the other, it does signal an awareness of the varied demands of different genres. His oscillation between transgression of the demands of

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historical writing and the recognition of those demands underscores the problem of finding a mode of writing that is appropriate for the representation of horrific events, a concern that is evoked in all of Aubigné’s works.

The Massacre at Tours The juxtaposition of the account of the massacre at Tours, which took place on July 11, 1562, in the Histoire universelle with the version in Les Tragiques underscores the distance between Aubigné’s historical writing and his epic. The account in the Histoire universelle is brief: Ceste licence donna le bransle à Cahors, à Sens, à Auxerre et à Tours, de traicter de mesme façon de mille à douze cents personnes. De ces derniers furent à Tours enfermez 300 dans l’Eglise de la Riche aux faux-bourgs, affamez par trois jours, pouis liez deux à deux et menez à l’eschorcherie, et sur un sable de la riviere, assommez de differentes façons. Les petis enfans s’y vendoyent un escu. Une femme de beauté excellente, ayant fait pitié à celui qui la menoit tuer, un autre l’entreprit, et pour monstrer la fermeté de son courage la despoüilla nuë, et prit plaisir avec d’autres à voir perir et fener ceste beauté par la mort. De quelques femmes enceinctes qui accoucherent en mourant, un enfant jetté dans la riviere fut porté sur l’eau la main droicte levee en haut, autant que les veuës le peurent conduire. Le President de Tours fut lié à des Saules comme on va au Plessis, et lui fut, vivant, le ventre ouvert pour cercher dans ses boyaux de l’or qu’ils y pensoyent caché.22

In this version from the Histoire universelle, the massacre is portrayed in the context of a series of similar events and thus to some extent is represented as unexceptional. Furthermore, the violence of this scene is presented in an almost matter-of-fact manner with little vivid detail. The reader is not constrained to see the actual modes of murder in the course of the massacre, but learns that the 300 victims, for example, are “assommez de differentes façons” (massacred in different manners, which is a rather vague way of putting it) and that children are sold for one écu. In this version of events, women give birth while dying, whereas in Les Tragiques, they are cut open so that the murderers can kill their children separately. Vivid details of torture and murder are largely missing from this version. In short, this version of events seems understated or relatively objective, given the violence of this massacre, even as it still pursues the Protestant agenda of revealing Catholic excesses in war. In “Les Fers,” the fifth book of Les Tragiques, Aubigné develops this account, adding details and multiplying the examples of violence he had, for the most part, merely listed in his historical account. In this version, he deploys his

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full range of poetic skills to hammer home the horrors of war, particularly those perpetrated against civilians, one of the central themes of his epic: Mais du tableau de Tours la marque plus hideuse Effaçoit les premiers, auquel impetueuse Couroit la multitude aux brutes cruautez Dont les Scytes gelez feussent espouvantez. Là de l’oeil tout puissant brilla la claire veüe Pour remarquer la main, et le couteau qui tüe. C’est là qu’on void tirer d’un temple des faux-bourgs Trois cents liez mi-morts, affamez par trois jours: Puis delivrez ainsy, quand la bande bouchere Les assomma couplez au bord de la riviere: La les tracgiques voix, l’air sans pitié fendoient: Là les enfans dans l’eau, un escu se vendoient, Arrachez aux marchands mouroient sans connoissance De noms, erreurs et temps, marques et difference: Mais quel crime avant vivre ont-ils peû encourir? C’est assez pour mourir que de pouvoir mourir, Il faut faire gouster les coups de la tüerie A ceux qui n’avoient pas encor gousté la vie: Ainsy bramans, tremblants, traisnez dessus le port Du fleuve et de leurs jours estallez à la mort, Ils avisoient percer les tetins de leurs meres, Embrassoient les genoux des tueurs de leurs peres, Leurs petits pieds fuioient le sang, non plus les eaux, D’un nanny, d’un jamais ils chantoient aux bourreaux Que la verge sans plus supplice d’un tel aage Les devoit anoblir du sang, et du carnage: Des meres qu’on fendoit un enfant avorté S’en alla sur les eaux, et sur elles porté Autant que les regards le pouvoient loing conduire Leva son bras au ciel, pour appeler son ire: Quelques uns par pitié vont reperçant les corps Où les esprits et coeurs ont des liens trop forts: Ces fendans aiant fait rencontre d’un visage Qui de trop de beauté affligeoit leur courage, Un moins dur laissa choir son bras et puis son fer, Un autre le releve, et tout plein de l’enfer Desfiant la pitié de pouvoir sur sa veüe, Despouilla la beauté pour la deschirer nüe, Prit plaisir à souiller la naïfve couleur Voiant ternir en mort cette vive blancheur: Les jeunes gens repris autresfois de leur vice Fouilloient au ventre vif du chef de la justice L’or qu’ils pensoient caché, comme on vid les Romains Desmesler des Juifs les boyaux de leurs mains.23

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This account repeats all of the elements narrated in the Histoire universelle, which presents the events in the following order: (1) three hundred starved Huguenots, having been locked into their temple for days, are brought out to be executed; (2) children are bought for the sum of one écu, and then killed; (3) a beautiful woman is stripped and killed; (4) dying women give birth, and one of these infants, after being thrown into the river, holds up its hand; (5) the President of Tours is disemboweled live, because it is rumored that he has hidden gold by swallowing it. In the version of events in Les Tragiques, the child in the water has been cut out of his mother and thrown into the river; just one example of how Aubigné amplifies the representation of violence in the epic. The same elements are detailed in the captions to the Perrissin and Tortorel engraving of the Tours massacre (from the collection of forty engravings published in 1569 in French under the title Histoires diverses) which depicts: (1) two hundred, not three hundred starving Huguenots being massacred; (2) the disemboweling of the President of Tours; (3) the selling of children for one écu (and their subsequent death); (4) the woman stripped and killed; (5) a pregnant woman who has given birth is thrown into the water with her child, and the baby lifts his arm skyward.24 The captions return at the beginning, the middle, and the end of the sequence to the massacre of hundreds of Protestants; this measure of the extent of the violence is the focus of the print. The poet does much more than shift the order of events. He amplifies the violence of the event in a number of ways and underscores its horror by means of various devices: the use of rhythm, alliteration and assonance to punctuate the passage; the framing of the event with various gazes that indicate an appropriate response to the reader; the multiplication of victims in order to heighten the sense of violence; and finally, exaggeration as to the nature of this violence, as mothers are cut open to inflict a separate death on their unborn children. The verses seem carefully orchestrated to elicit the maximum of horror. The rhythm of this passage evokes the contrast between epic decorum and the chaos of war. The first seven lines are perfect alexandrines, with a caesura in each line. They frame the narrative of events, presenting the judgment of the poetic persona himself, ancients peoples, and God (“le tout puissant”). Once the depiction of the suffering victims begins, however, the stately rhythm is disrupted or interrupted (“trois cents liés, mi-morts, affamés par trois jours”). The more classical alexandrines then alternate, although not in an entirely regular fashion, with these “broken” lines: “Puis delivrés ainsi, quand la bande bouchere / Les assomma, couplés, au bord de la rivière.” This last couplet also underscores the perversity of this violence with the equivocal word “couplés,” which indicates that the victims were killed two by two, but gestures as well towards sexual acts. The more stately rhythm resumes until the moment when

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the children are massacred, and again this rhythm contrasts with less wellbalanced lines, such as “Ainsi bramans, tremblans, trainés dessus le port.” In this line, the repetition of sounds effaces the caesura to some degree and breaks up the beginning of the line in imitation of the children going unwillingly to their deaths. This combination of classical epic form and occasional breaks in this rhythm sets the stage for other stylistic “inconsistencies” that seem designed to trip the reader up and frustrate any smooth reading of the text, a fact which is particularly evident for anyone trying to recite the verses aloud. The book in which this massacre is described, “Les Fers,” consists largely of the poetic persona witnessing a series of “tableaux” that represent the violence inflicted upon the French Protestants. So, this passage explodes with the “tableau de Tours,” more hideous than any of the preceding massacres, to the point where it overshadows them (“effaçoit les premiers”). The entire passage is dominated by t’s and p’s: “brutes cruautés,” “couteau qui tue,” “tirer d’un temple,” “tremblans, trainés,” and tue, tuerie, tueurs; “C’est assez pour mourir que de pouvoir mourir,” “Desfiant la pitié de pouvoir,” and many other examples. Not only the imagery, but the sounds themselves underscore the violence of the massacre and cut into the flow of the lines just as the killers cut into their victims. The cutting sounds of p’s and t’s are seconded by ou’s and u’s: Tours, multitude, brutes, cruautés, espouvantés, veuë, couteau, tüe, faux-bourgs, jours, bouchere, couples, escu, mouroyent, encourir, mourir, pouvoir, mourir, gouster, coups, tüerie, gousté, jours, genoux, tueurs, bourreaux. The sound of killing, tuer, repeated throughout the passage is made into a wordplay at the very beginning, with the marque. . .impetueuse of the horrible massacre, and thus death itself lurks everywhere in this passage. The sounds, while carrying mournfully through the entire passage, also link certain words: la bande bouchere (the butchering band) becomes the bourreaux (executioners). And death resurfaces everywhere with the repetition of the verb mourir in various forms. In the scene with the young woman, courage and the power (pouvoir) of innocence give way to despouilla (undress) and souïller (soil), these acts linked by sound to the rooting through the President’s bowels in the search for gold (fouilloyent). The tight sequence of violence created by this linking of sounds creates a claustrophobic atmosphere from which one senses there is no escape. As noted above, Aubigné frames his account of the event with two gazes, that of the horrific Scythians, who themselves are horrified by this violence, and “l’oeil tout puissant” or God, who sees all and marks it down (“Pour remarquer la main et le couteau qui tue”). These gazes are echoed by allusions to sight: “on voit” – someone sees the hundreds of Protestants pulled out of the temple; the children watch their mothers being murdered (“Ils avisoyent

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percer les tetins de leurs meres”); one child points to the heavens to remind the spectators who are watching him be carried downriver by the current that God is watching them (“Autant que les regards le pouvoyent loin conduire, / Leva un bras au ciel pour appeler son ire”). The one soldier who weakens at the sight of great beauty is replaced by another, “Desfiant la pitié de pouvoir sur sa veuë” (defying the power of pity over his sight), who takes pleasure in watching the girl die. In the Histoire universelle, this soldier is motivated by the desire to “monstrer la fermeté de son courage,” which places him as a heroic figure in the realm of epic; ironically, in the epic, he becomes a perversion of this heroic role, a transformation that underscores yet again the impossibility of writing “pure” epic about the Wars of Religion. The divine eye takes note of the viciousness of the human gaze, its objectification of and violence towards fellow humans. The final act of violence is compared to watching the Romans torment Jews (“comme on vid les Romains / Desmesler des Juifs les boyaux de leurs mains”). The gaze ranges from the impersonal “on” to the innocent children watching their parents be murdered and the pitiless soldiers watching a beautiful woman die. Witnesses are inscribed everywhere in this scene, and everything is seen by the all-encompassing eye of God. Within the confines of these gazes, the violence of the historical accounts is multiplied. Two hundred massacred Protestants become three hundred; the child sold for a crown becomes several or many children. More children watch their mothers being stabbed to death, or beg for mercy for their fathers. Multiple women are cut open so that their babies can be killed separately. Only the beautiful woman and the President remain singular. The reader is at first overwhelmed with the scale of death and then focuses on two senseless and sterile acts that echo the Massacre of the Innocents that has preceded them in disturbing ways. Love cannot sway the soldiers away from killing the beautiful woman who is described in terms reminiscent of Petrarchan poetry: “Print plaisir à souïller la naïve couleur.” The President, in a perverse version of the already perverse “caesarians” performed in mothers in the massacre so that their children can be killed separately, has his abdomen opened so that his bowels can be searched for the gold he is supposedly hiding there; we are led to believe that this effort is fruitless. In a sense, the violence directed at mothers and children spreads uncontrollably to everyone else, and beauty and power cannot save the victims. As the poet says of the murdered children: “C’est assez pour mourir que de pouvoir mourir.” This verse, with its sententious quality, speaks to the almost classical poetics of the entire passage, with its parallel structures, careful organizations of the imagery of the gaze, the beautifully paced alexandrines with caesuras

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(“Pour remarquer la main et le couteau qui tue”). But the conjunction of such epic verses with more direct and horrible imagery tells the story of Aubigné’s newly-invented style: “D’un nanny, d’un jamais ils chantoyent aux bourreaux / Que la verge sans plus, supplice d’un tel aage, / Les devoit anoblir du sang et du carnage. / Des meres qu’on fendoit un enfant avorté.” By inserting images of horror that exceed the boundaries of epic decorum, he links the violence so celebrated by epic poetry to the unacceptable violence perpetrated during the Wars of Religion. Similarly, by inserting the vocabulary of love poetry into the scene with the beautiful woman (“naïve couleur,” “vive blancheur”), the poet underscores the sexual violence of this scene, already suggested by the double deaths (“couplés”) of the hundreds of Protestants. The shocking words inserted into the elevated verses prevents the reader from being lulled into a sense of this violence as noble or ennobling; it is merely awful. While Lucan’s Pharsalia can be seen as a model for this less decorous version of epic, what distinguishes Les Tragiques from other epics is precisely the rapid shift between a more conventional epic style, with restrained expressions of the violence of war, to more direct and less polished language. But this shift is so carefully managed, certainly in the description of the massacre at Tours, and so effective at jarring the expectations created by the more stylized representations of violence, among them expectations of an acceptable resolution to this violence, that it seems more effective to analyze it for what it does, rather than what we wish it would do. This passage constantly moves our gaze back to the children and babies killed, along with their mothers and fathers, the innocence (and innocents) lost, and to the horror of war, rather than depicting it as the necessary evil that is foundational to the good order of the nation. It displays this violence as cruel, degenerate, and disruptive of social order, not a means of re-establishing order or a justification of this order. What Aubigné achieves in “Les Princes” by raising the question of what the subject and style of great (epic) literature might be and how he might be departing from the expectations of many readers concerning subject and style, is to raise the question of what purpose literature should serve in the context of the excesses of war. Should it speak only the language of the victors, as most epics do, or should it speak for those who cannot speak for themselves, the victims of countless massacres, of continued oppression, the voiceless in a society where only the powerful are allowed a voice? The resulting style that he has quite deliberately developed, according to his own statements in the epic itself, in the Histoire universelle and in personal letters, is his answer to the question of how to represent these wars from the perspective of their most powerless victims, how to evoke the confusion and chaos and pointlessness of it all. The violent shifts in style in his description of the massacre at Tours mark the moments of

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loss, not only of life but of humanity in those taking the lives and force the reader to mark these losses as well. The question raised in Les Tragiques and in the Histoire universelle concerning the appropriate literary style for representing the violence of the state against its own people has continued to be significant as people have sought to respond to abuses of power and excessive or unwarranted force in every era since the Wars of Religion. How effective is decorous language and civil negotiation in the face of such violence? On the other hand, does violent language simply breed more violence? The answer may well lie somewhere in the midst of complex understandings of the functioning of language and power. As Les Tragiques shows us, just as language can be used to authorize violence in the service of power, so can it be used to disrupt that authorization and that power.

Endnotes 1.

2.

3. 4.

See, for example, Luc Racaut, Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), and Jennifer Spinks, “Print and Polemic in Sixteenth-Century France: The Histoires prodigieuses, Confessional Identity, and the Wars of Religion,” Renaissance Studies 27, no. 1 (2013), pp. 73–96. Two superb examples of this are Amy Graves Monroe’s essay, “Soundscapes of the Wars of Religion: Sensory Crisis and the Collective Memory of Violence,” and Andrea Frisch’s essay, “Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Tragiques as Testimony,” both in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-Century France, ed. David LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2015). An excellent introduction to the style of Les Tragiques is Frank Lestringant’s book, Lire les Tragiques d’Agrippa d’Aubigné (Paris: Garnier, 2013). “Some say that execrable acts should be poured Into the well of oblivion and the closed tomb, And that evil resuscitated by writing Will infect the morals of posterity: But knowledge is not the mother of vice, And virtue is not the daughter of ignorance; That is the fuming dungheap beneath which the foul sins Feed and grow if they are not torn up, And the steel of even intellectual virtues Cuts and destroys error and pierces history. It is better to show the infection openly With its stench and its punishment.” Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, Les Tragiques, “Princes,” 2.1083–94. All references to Les Tragiques (cited here as LT) are to Jean-Raymond Fanlo’s edition (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2003 and 2006). The book number (before the period) and verse (after) are given. All translations are my own. This author looks forward to Valerie Worth’s translation into English of Les Tragiques,

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5. 6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

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forthcoming at the time of completion of this essay from the Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies Press (ACMRS). Andrea Frisch, Forgetting Differences: Tragedy, Historiography, and the French Wars of Religion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), pp. 1–25. “We have ordered and order, intend, wish, and it pleases us, that all injuries and offenses that the iniquity of the times, and the events which have occurred, could have given rise to among our said subjects, and all other things that have happened and were caused by the present disorders, remain extinguished, as if dead, buried and never having happened.” André Stegmann, Edits des Guerres de Religion (Paris: J. Vrin, 1979), pp. 35–36. “Nous voullons et ordonnons que seullement les cas execrables demeureront exceptez de lad. abolition, comme ravissemens et forcemens de femmes et filles, bruslementz, meurtres” (We wish and order that only execrable incidents will remain exempt from this abolition, such as rape and assault of women and girls, burning, murder). Édit de Nantes, Édit general, Éditions en ligne de l’École des chartes, http://elec.enc.sorbonne. fr/editsdepacification/edit_12. Barbara Diefendorf, “Waging Peace: Memory, Identity, and the Edict of Nantes,” in Religious Differences in France, ed. Kathleen Perry Long (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2006), pp. 19–49. Antónia Szabari, Less Rightly Said: Scandals and Readers in Sixteenth-Century France (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), p. 45. “The heterogeneous quality of the language and the discontinuity of discourse in Les Tragiques.” Jean-Raymond Fanlo, Tracés, ruptures: La composition instable des Tragiques (Paris: Champion, 1990), p. 13. Bailbé, Agrippa d’Aubigné poète des Tragiques (Caen: Université de Caen, 1968); see in particular his chapter, “L’imagination,” pp. 399–461, that focuses on the rhetorical style of the epic. In this regard, Les Tragiques is, as Quint has called it, an “epic of the defeated.” David Quint, Epic and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 131–209. “They complain that all of the histories of the Waldensians have been falsified, that we have nothing by their hands, but only by the hands of those who persecuted them. We should establish that which can be pulled from the shadows, as much because the Reformed believe they have taken up the banner of these predecessors, as well as because these ruined people have scattered throughout Europe the seeds of those to whom one can more openly attribute the Reformation.” Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, Histoire universelle, ed. André Thierry, vol. 1 (Geneva: Droz, 1981), p. 171. “There is a great need for posterity to know our stories in our own voices.” Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, “À M. Goulard, Ministre à Geneve,” in Œuvres, ed. Henri Weber (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), p. 871. For more information on these villes or places de sûreté, see Pierre-Jean Souriac, “Les places de sûretés protestantes (1570–1629)” (Master’s Thesis, Université Toulouse le Mirail, 1997); Valérie Lafage, “Montpellier, ville de sûreté protestante,” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes, 160 (2002), pp. 575–90. See Kathleen Long, “Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné,” in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, vol. 327, Sixteenth-Century French Writers, ed. Megan Conway (Detroit: Thomson Gale, 2006), pp. 14–15.

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“I want with blows made of rays of the living light, To burst open the swollen Python in his hollow den, I want to open to the wind vice-ridden Hades, Which, with its poisonous breath blackens the skies, To pierce these infected beings’ plagues and boils, To open the hideous depths, the horrible corpses Of the whited sepulchers: those who see this, While covering their noses, will gaze on with frowning brows.” LT, “Princes,” 2.1–8. “You who have given this subject to my pen, Who yourselves have brought to my anvil This glowing bolt of lightning sharpened with fury, Read about it: you will be horrified at your horror! Not that I hope that a modest shame Overcomes your pale dog-like faces; Shame is lost, your heart is stained With pale impudence, loving sin; For you give such luster to your dark filth That in charming your eyes, it seems pure to you. I have blushed for you, when the steel of my verses Engraved your story for the eyes of the universe. A subject and a style unknown before this.” LT, “Princes,” 2.9–21. “If someone reproaches me that my heated verses Are filled with nothing other than murder and blood, That one reads in them only of fury, of massacre, of rage, Of horror, sorrow, poison, treason and carnage, I answer him: friend, those words that you reproach Are the expressions of the art that I have invented. The flatterers of love only sing of their vices, With expressions chosen to paint delights, Of honey, smiles, games, loves and pastimes. . . This century, different in its customs, calls for another style. Let us pick the bitter fruits, in which it is fertile.” LT, “Princes,” 2.59–78. Hunkeler traces the reception of this “tougher” (aspro) and “more virile” style. Thomas Hunkeler, “Dante à Lyon: Des ‘rime petrose’ aux ‘durs épigrammes,’” Italique 11 (2008), pp. 9–27. “I beg you not to fear that there will be a hint of the violence of my verses, nor the liberty of my youth. There are no perfidious massacres, nor disgraces, not even Saint Bartholomew’s Day, which could tear from my pen the words cruelty, not even harshness, to such an extent I observe the equanimity of the Historian.” “À M. de Seaux, Secretaire d’Estat,” in Œuvres, p. 869. “This liberty [to massacre the Protestants at Vassy with impunity] gave the impetus at Cahors, Sens, Auxerre and Tours to treat between a thousand and twelve hundred people in the same manner. Of these, at Tours 300 were imprisoned in the Church of la Riche in the outskirts of town, starved for three days, then tied together two by two and led to slaughter on the banks of the river and struck down in different ways. Small children were sold for one crown. A woman of outstanding beauty, having aroused pity in the man who led her to be killed, another man undertook the deed, and in order to

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demonstrate the firmness of his courage he stripped her naked and took pleasure along with the others to see this beauty fade and perish in death. Of the several women who gave birth while they were dying, one child thrown into the river was carried downstream, with his right hand raised on high, as far as the gazes could follow. The President of Tours was tied to some willow trees like those on the route to Plessis, and while he was still alive, his stomach was opened up and his bowels searched for the gold that they thought was hidden there.” Histoire universelle, vol. 2, pp. 12–13. “But the more hideous mark of the tableau of Tours Effaced the preceding pictures, and to this scene impetuously Ran the multitude of brutal cruelties, Of which even the frozen Scythians would have been horrified. There, the clear vision of the all-powerful eye shone, Noting the hand and the knife that killed. It is there that one sees three hundred bound men and women Pulled out of a temple in the outskirts of town, half-dead, famished for three days, Then handed over this way, when the butchering band Clubbed them, tied together, on the river-bank. There tragic voices cut the pitiless air, There children in the water were sold for one ecu, Torn from those who sold them, they died without understanding Names, sins and times, distinctions and differences (or quarrels). But what crime could they have committed before even living? It is enough to die that one is capable of dying. One must make those who have not even tasted life Taste the blows of a massacre. So, crying, trembling, dragged down to the edge of the river And of their lives, displayed for death, They watch the breasts of their mothers pierced, And hug the knees of their fathers’ murderers. Their little feet flee the bloodshed, not the water; They sing to the executioners “no, no” and “never,” Those who should be punished only with the stick (cane), appropriate to their age, But they must be ennobled by blood and carnage. Taken from one of the mothers who had been split open, an aborted child Went along on the waters, and carried by them, As far as the gaze could follow him, Lifted an arm towards heaven to call down its wrath. Some out of pity went around restabbing bodies In which the spirit and the heart were too strongly tied. These “splitters” having come across a face which, Being too beautiful, weakened their courage, A less hardened man let his arm drop, and then his sword, Another picked it up, and full of hell, Defying the power of pity over his sight, Stripped the beauty so that he might tear it naked, And took pleasure in sullying the innocent color,

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And watching this living whiteness darken in death. Young men, retaken by their former vice, Rummaged in the living stomach of the chief justice For the gold they thought hidden there, just as one saw the Romans Untangling the intestines of Jews with their bare hands.” LT, “Les Fers,” 5.605–48. These engravings are presented and analyzed by Philip Benedict. The print of the massacre at Tours is one of the earliest extant accounts of this event, and the only one that depicts certain actions, such as the disemboweling of the President of Parliament, the sale of small children to be killed, and the murder of the beautiful woman, during the massacre. As such, it served as a source for many subsequent accounts. Philip Benedict, Graphic History: The Wars, Massacres, and Troubles of Tortorel and Perrissin (Geneva: Droz, 2007), p. 139.

Marcus Keller

7 The Paradox of Civil War in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Tragiques Modern readers commonly speak of the violent conflict between Catholics and Protestants that Agrippa d’Aubigné portrays in Les Tragiques in terms of the French Wars of Religion. Guerre de religion as a phrase and concept, however, was still unknown when Aubigné’s epic poem was first published in 1616 and would remain so until the end of the seventeenth century.1 The poet himself refers to the intermittent conflict that devastated France during the second half of the sixteenth century as “troubles,” “guerre,” and on occasion more specifically as “guerre civile” throughout the seven books of his poem. In “Princes,” for instance, members of the aristocracy are accused of stoking “noz guerres civilles,” and, in “Les Fers,” the poet concludes a tour d’horizon of his warravaged country with the words “tel est l’hideux portraict de la guerre civille.”2 One of the literary models of Les Tragiques is Lucan’s De bello civili, which might further explain why the concept of civil war was not only on the poet’s mind but is also firmly anchored in the poem. It therefore invites reflection about the idea of civil war, a form of conflict that, in many ways, overlaps with the concepts of war and religious violence but is not identical to either of them. In fact, while the representation of violence in Les Tragiques has received much attention, critics have focused little on the specificity of civil war.3 Jean Céard discusses Aubigné’s France as a monde à l’envers, a world turned upside down, following the poet’s own characterization of the state of affairs in his country in the first book “Misères.”4 But as a commonplace of inversion and revolution, the monde à l’envers preserves the idea of a monde that is still intact and recognizable, a world that can be turned around once more.5 Civil war in Les Tragiques, on the other hand, is conceptualized as so destructive and disfiguring, as the source of such profound social, cultural, and symbolic violence, that the formula of a “world turned on its head” seems too moderate and orderly to capture the magnitude of the devastation this kind of conflict causes. In order to focus on the question of the representation of civil war in Les Tragiques, it is necessary to abstract from the religious dimension of the conflict between French Catholics and Protestants even though the Huguenot Aubigné foregrounds it early on, blaming the Catholic party for the demise of his country. In “Misères,” however, Aubigné sets out to describe the ravages of war with some degree of impartiality, holding both faith groups responsible for the conflict: “Je veux peindre la France une mere affligee / Qui est entre ses bras de https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-008

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deux enfans chargee.”6 While the triangular structure of this initial allegory still distinguishes between Catholics and Protestants as two equal children belonging to the same mother, elsewhere in “Misères” the poet erases this distinction through allegories, metaphors, and analogies to insist on the dehumanizing force of a civil war that ineluctably embroils all members of society, regardless of their faith.7 In Les Tragiques, civil war emerges as a singular and complex form of group violence without heroes and without choices. This characterization of civil war is in part the effect of the poet’s idiosyncratic use of different genres, in particular tragedy and epic. Aubigné’s formal choices, therefore, condition the poem’s configuration of civil war as a historical phenomenon and an aesthetic challenge that, ultimately, leads to the inclusion of its readers into the community of les tragiques or the tragic ones.8 As we will see, the poetics of Les Tragiques with its inventive mix of genres encapsulates the idea that civil war is essentially a paradox: a conflict that creates a community in order to destroy it and a form of war in which every victory is synonymous with defeat.

“Combattre pour et contre nous” The poetics of civil war in Les Tragiques is composed of allegories, analogies, and metaphors. Aubigné privileges the interrelated semantic fields of nutrition, the body, and the family to capture the specificity of internecine violence. The three fields intersect insofar as the members of a family, real or imaginary, are bound by biological ties, one generation naturally creating and nurturing the next. The well-being of the family, its procreation, and the existence of the larger body of society in history depend on constant nutrition. In Les Tragiques, civil war interrupts this organic process. The self-inflicted destruction of a social order that is assumed to be natural, the conflict sickens and decimates each individual’s body and the collective body of France. A first diagnosis of the specific effects of civil war can be derived from the extended allegory of France as a monstrous giant in “Misères” (1.131–62). After evoking the common analogy of the state as a body politic by portraying France as a “corps divisé,” Aubigné envisions his country as a grotesque and excessive figure whose humors are out of balance: “Quand je voy s’apprester la tragedie horrible / Du meurtrier de soy mesme, aux autres invincible, / Je pense encores voir ung monstrueux geant.”9 As Aubigné likens France to both an invincible giant and a suicidal monster, the poet also evokes the tragic quality of what is about to unfold before the reader’s eyes. The insistence on voir, the second

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mention of which is combined with penser, enhances the tension of a scene that condemns the poet and the reader to watch the unfolding of a collective self-murder without the ability to intervene. At the same time, the reader is left entirely in the dark about the reasons for the announced suicide and monstrous nature of the giant who is said to be above any danger or pressure from outside (invincible). To the degree that the envisioned self-destruction seems senseless and unavoidable, the impending murderous act becomes all the more unbearable and tragic, a quality of civil war, mentioned explicitly here, to which we shall return. The possible reasons for the giant’s self-abandonment remain obscure in the ensuing description of his ailments in which the poet focuses on the belly of the creature’s “viel corps tout infect”10: Aussy foible que grand [le géant] n’enfle plus que son ventre, Ce ventre dans lequel tout se tire, tout entre, Ce faux dispensateur des communs excrements N’envoye plus aux bords les justes aliments.11

In times of civil war, this passage suggests, the limbs and head of France’s collective body are withering away because whatever life remains is concentrated at the malfunctioning center (“ventre”). This in turn leads to the giant’s monstrous deformation: “[il] a sur ce vaste corps une petite teste.”12 Strikingly, the diagnosis leaves the meaning of the twice-mentioned “tout” open, thus skirting the question of what exactly besets the central organ.13 The “torn” stomach of the emaciated giant resonates with the numerous gory scenes of disembowelment that Aubigné spreads in front of the reader throughout Les Tragiques.14 The poem thus bestows a particular symbolic significance upon the stomach and the guts more generally. Here the ventre-metaphor suggests that, as a society, the French have lost the organic basis of their subsistence because of civil strife. Internecine violence destroys the natural cycle of food production and redistribution, the alimentation of the collective body and all its members. The stomach, normally fulfilling the existential role of transforming nutrition into life-giving energy, is about to explode (“tout se tire, tout entre”). This central metaphor also evokes the French guerre intestine (intestinal war), more directly expressing the idea that civil war is a gut war in both a literal and figurative sense. Through its many scenes of gut-wrenching violence, Les Tragiques ties the literal to the figural sense of civil strife as an existential attack on the very foundation of the biological life of one’s community. In other words, contrary to other forms of conflict, civil war is necessarily suicidal (“meurtrier de soy mesme”). The early allegory of the monstrous giant also reveals an idea of community that is more organic and existential than one might expect at the turn of the

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seventeenth century. Aubigné portrays his compatriots as an economic and cultural community bound by ties that run deeper than a union signified by, for instance, a common heart or will. Rather than an abstract soul or mind, it is the stomach that holds society together as an organism. Paradoxically, civil war brings out the visceral essence of a community – as figurative and therefore vague as this essence remains – at the very moment when the conflict is about to cause its collapse. In more general terms, then, the allegory shows that the concept of civil war presupposes the existence of a society as it poses an existential threat to it by deeply affecting its innermost workings. This paradox of simultaneous construction and destruction is expressed in the oxymoronic term of civil war or guerre civile itself. Contrary to Bürgerkrieg, for example, civil war and guerre civile connote not only the idea of a citizen as a member of an organized and lawful community (Bürger) who becomes an agent of war against his fellow citizens, but also that of civility, the very opposite of warlike behavior. Warrior and poet, Aubigné himself could be seen as an incarnation of this oxymoron and the peculiar tensions civil war creates within each individual and in the society that is afflicted by it. These tensions are aptly conveyed from the outset in the formula of civil war as a combat “pour nous et contre nous.”15 The phrase poignantly captures the essential paradox of civil war that anybody faces who is actively involved in it: as soon as one takes sides, regardless of one’s allegiance (“pour”), any action one takes is immediately directed against oneself (“contre”). Those who set out to win in a civil war are already its losers. The allegory of the giant thus reveals the existential threat that civil war poses to each member of a society that is beleaguered by it. It also prepares the ground for the theme of civil war as an essentially dehumanizing process. Toward the end of the episode, the giant is said to have morphed into a “horrible beste,” echoing the “tragedie horrible” at the beginning.16 The essential paradox of civil war is nurtured by the idea that humanity lost its humanity: “Car pour monstrer comment en la destruction / L’homme n’est plus un homme, il prend refection / Des herbes, des charognes, des viandes nonprestes, / Ravissant les repas apprestez pour les bestes.”17 In a world ravaged by civil war, men and women degenerate to uncivilized, savage beings. By stealing food from domesticated animals, they in turn drive the latter to feed on human carrion (1.465–82). The pinnacle of this perverted food chain is at the same time the gruesome apogee of “Misères”: in a gut-wrenching scene, Aubigné depicts how a desperate mother forces herself to kill her emaciated child by biting it to death and to cannibalize it in order to stay alive. In a crescendo of alliterations and assonances, the horrendous conditions of civil war convert this representative figure of the paradoxical “meres non meres”

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(unmotherly mothers), “moins mere qu’affamee” (less mother than famished), into a “meurtriere” (murderess).18 The passage thus condenses the perversion and degeneration of human beings through civil war, the subversion of their own species, and, as a consequence, the breakdown of family and any other form of communal life.19 The anthropophagous mother, generic counterpart of “man” stealing from animals, becomes the emblem of a civil war that literally and figuratively devours its own children. It is the form of war that breaks all taboos and denatures humans and animals alike. The contradiction in terms of civil and war could not be expressed more starkly than in these passages of “Misères.” Evocations of scavenging and starvation, indigestion and malnutrition, then, compose the thematic foil of civil war in “Misères.” As Aubigné depicts the horrendous consequences of internecine violence through metaphors, analogies, and allegories that revolve around food and digestion, the characteristics of civil war crystallize. The feature that perhaps defines civil war more than any other, already encapsulated in the figure of the unmotherly mother, is the deliberate killing of next of kin. In Les Tragiques, civil war is above all a family war: L’homme est en proye à l’homme: un loup à son pareil: Le pere estrangle au lict le filz, et le cercueil Preparé pour le filz sollicite le pere, Le frere avant le temps herite de son frere: On trouve des moyens, des crimes tout nouveaux, Des poisons inconnus, ou les sanglants couteaux Travaillent au midy, et le furieux vice, Et le meurtre public, ont le nom de justice.20

References to family ties and their violent disruption, interspersed throughout “Misères,” build the rhetoric bridge between the individual, the “man” and “mother” who are inescapably drawn into the conflict, as we have seen above, and the community, figured as the ailing giant. Insisting again on the individual’s dehumanization and decline into savagery (“loup”), Aubigné speaks in relative terms (“pere,” “filz”) and abstracts from the individual motivation of family members to kill each other. The poet’s rhetoric thus continues to foreground the seemingly arbitrary nature of internecine violence. The use of the present tense lends this violence a general, pervasive and self-perpetuating quality. Civil war as portrayed here and elsewhere in “Misères” is strikingly devoid of heroes. It is also utterly pointless, violence for violence’s sake. Seemingly out of control, it endangers everyone’s life in an unpredictable dynamic whose dubious distinction lies in the invention of ever more insidious ways of killing one another (“poisons inconnus”). It is a form of conflict so unique and extreme that it has its own name.21

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Even though Aubigné insinuates early on in “Misères” that he holds Catholic leaders accountable for the catastrophic state of affairs, he remains noticeably restrained in the distribution of blame when he focuses on the horrors of civil war. He seems more intent on provoking pity and fear in the observers of this “horrible tragedy,” regardless of whose side they might favor or whether they are contemporary or modern. Through the depiction of the conflict as an ineluctable process that entices family members to turn against and kill each other, the poet rather envisions a dynamic that, in Aristotelian terms, we would describe as genuinely tragic. In other words, civil war is the sort of conflict that makes for the best tragic plot.

The Paradox of Epic Tragedy According to Aristotle, tragedy must seek “cases where the sufferings occur within relationships, such as brother and brother, son and father, mother and son, son and mother – when the one kills (or is about to kill) the other, or commits some other such deed.”22 On the one hand, given his subject, Aubigné explicitly evokes tragedy and the tragic not only through the title of his work but throughout Les Tragiques, as if he heeded Aristotle’s precept.23 Through the poem’s form, on the other hand, composed in alexandrines and divided into seven books or cantos, he emulates the tradition of classical epic. Privileging the two genres considered the most prestigious since the days of the Pleiade, Aubigné also destabilizes them by deliberately mixing them and adding stylistic registers and features associated with other genres such as satire or martyrology.24 Throughout Les Tragiques, the reader is confronted with generic and other formal tensions: the tensions between a controlled, poetic form and the subject of chaotic, disfiguring violence; between the implicit epic architecture of the work and its explicit reference to the tragic; between formal continuity and stylistic disruption; and, as we shall see, between presence and absence.25 Aubigné thus translates the paradox of civil war into the conflicting yet conflated relationship between genres and styles. Associated through form and title, the epic and the tragic are further enmeshed and tied to the paradox of civil war through the emblematic figure of Melpomene, the disfigured muse of tragedy. In accordance with epic tradition, the poet invokes the muse at the beginning of “Misères” (1.79–88): “eschevelee, affreuse, et bramant,” reawakened from the dead, she resembles the warravaged France she addresses only to accuse her of betraying her children: “O France desolee! ô terre sanguinaire: / Non pas terre, mais cendre! Ô mere! Si

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c’est mere / Que trahir ses enfants aux douceurs de son sein, / Et quand on les meurtrit les serrer de sa main.”26 The country is as disfigured and desolate as the muse herself. Leaving aside the complications of the relationship between France and her children that Melpomene’s accusation entails – why is France blood-soaked and burnt to ashes? who strikes down her children? – what is of interest here is that the muse characterizes her as “mère non-mère,” preparing the ground for the other unmotherly mother portrayed later in “Misères” and discussed above as one of the incarnations of civil war’s paradox. Through this early epical invocation of France by the muse of tragedy, Aubigné invites the reader to understand the misères of his country also in terms of genre. Aubigné’s poetics of civil war entails a paradox of genres just as paradox is a generic quality of civil war. If epic and tragedy are present from the beginning through the poem’s form and title, they could also be considered absent from it. Referencing both genres, Les Tragiques do not adhere to defining characteristics of either of them. Modern readers have analyzed the numerous ways in which Aubigné draws on classical models, most notably Lucan’s civil war epic Pharsalia, but also Virgil’s Aeneid.27 Among classical genres, the epic also seems most apt to represent the chaos and convolutions of civil war since it does not rely on a single plot: “In epic,” Aristotle says, “given the narrative mode, it is possible for the poem to include many simultaneous sections.. . .So this gives the epic an asset for the development of grandeur, variety for the hearer, and diversity of episodes, whereas sameness soon cloys and causes tragedies to founder.”28 Furthermore, flashbacks, diverse viewpoints, multiple levels of discourse, and a narrator who liberally intervenes are characteristic of epic and are all featured in Les Tragiques. And yet, a hero and a main adventure, key elements of the genre, are strikingly absent. The poem’s title can thus be understood as a critical comment on the classical tradition rather than an imitation of it: replacing eponymous heroes such as Odysseus or Aeneas with les tragiques, the tragic ones, Aubigné substitutes the heroic journey and victory of the one with the tragic destiny of the many who are embroiled in the inescapable dynamic of civil war. They remain anonymous and generic – but no less emblematic – like the mother who cannibalizes her own child. Aubigné undermines epic tradition, both exploiting its conventions and rejecting them, and alters the genre almost beyond recognition just as civil war leaves no stone standing and disfigures Melpomene, France, and so many other characters. Aubigné proceeds in the same way with the tragic genre: in addition to a subject matter ideal for tragedy, to which the poem intermittently refers, the visual quality of Aubigné’s poetry adds to the dramatic feel of Les Tragiques, especially in “Misères” and “Les Fers.” The declared purpose of Les Tragiques

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is to move (esmouvoir) the reader.29 In the books that follow, the reader is exposed to vivid images and a violent spectacle not unlike the one a spectator of tragedy would have seen performed on stage before the codification of bienséance in the mid-seventeenth century. Scenes of civil war are staged in such a way that they are apt to inspire pity and fear and provide a cathartic experience, as if in keeping with another Aristotelian precept for tragedy.30 Harangues and dialogues, scattered throughout the poem, add to its theatrical feel. But the intended goal of the staged violence is not just that the readerspectator undergo a cathartic experience: “voyez la tragedie, abbaissez vos courages. / Vous n’estes spectateurs, vous estes personnages.”31 Although these words are addressed to the kingdom’s magistrates and financiers, they also apply to the readers turned onlookers and entice them to action. Part of the tragic dynamic of civil war, Aubigné seems to suggest, is that one is already involved in it just by watching. Aubigné extends here the theoretical purpose of the tragic from catharsis to mobilization. He thus creates for the contemporary reader – and perhaps the modern one as well – another, disquieting tension between being in front of the stage but also on it, between being spectator and actor at the same time. The above-mentioned insight that one is always among the losers in a civil war regardless of whose side one takes, does not ease this tension.32 Insofar as Aubigné confronts the readers with the dilemma of either remaining passive onlookers, thus indirectly condoning violence, or becoming active participants condemned to defeat, they are put in the position of the anonymous tragic victims of civil war.33 The poem, however, is as little a tragedy as it is an epic, since it is not carried by a unified plot, stipulated “the soul of tragedy” by Aristotle.34 The poem has no dramatic arc in which a central conflict arises and finds a tragic end. If there is a denouement, it is the eschatological vision of “Jugement,” deferred to an undetermined future and relying on divine intervention. As far as the violent present of civil war is concerned, it remains an unresolved, sprawling plot, embroiling actors and spectators alike. An essential trait of civil war, paradox is thus replicated on multiple levels through Aubigné’s specific use of genres: as we have seen, both epic and tragedy are present and absent. From the viewpoint of a theory of genres, a tragic epic or an epic tragedy are contradictions in and of themselves. Finally, Les Tragiques is also a paradox in the etymological sense of the word: from its beginning, the poem works against (para) the conventional opinion (doxa) about genre. In poetic terms, Les Tragiques conveys that traditional genres are still useful, if only in combination, but also insufficient when it comes to the representation of civil war. As a form of group violence it is so unique that it requires a new poetic approach combining the creative use of existing generic conventions with a radical

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break from them. In response to the aesthetic challenge at hand, Aubigné proposes a poem that in terms of genre and style is so hybrid, paradoxical, and, one might add, monstrous that it resembles the grotesque giant we encountered in the beginning. In historical terms, Les Tragiques suggests that civil war renders conventional poetics obsolete: it is too late to use tradition and too early to formulate or establish a new one. From this perspective, it is perhaps no coincidence that Montaigne, writing through several decades of civil war like Aubigné, albeit from a different ideological standpoint, and grappling with a similar aesthetic conundrum, invented the Essais and called them “monstrous.”35 Through Les Tragiques, then, but also the Essais, the subject of civil war reveals itself as also highly productive, adding a final paradox to our discussion. In spite of its destructive and tragic nature – or perhaps because of it – the French civil wars inspired the creation of works of art of considerable magnitude and complexity. If readers at the beginning of the seventeenth century found hope in Aubigné’s magnum opus, they might have done so because of the aesthetic productivity and power that the “troubles” helped bring about rather than the promise of divine revenge and Huguenot salvation laid out in “Vengeances” and “Jugement.” Today’s readers of Les Tragiques can only hope for the same as they wait for the literary works about the civil wars of their own era to be written.

Endnotes 1. 2.

3.

4.

See Alain Rey, ed., Dictionnaire historique de la langue française, vol. 3 (Paris: Le Robert, 2012), p. 1659. “Our civil wars.” Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné, Les Tragiques, “Princes,” 2.554; “such is the hideous picture of the civil war.” LT, “Les Fers,” 5.351. I am quoting from JeanRaymond Fanlo’s critical edition of Les Tragiques (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2003 and 2006). References to Les Tragiques (cited here as LT) are to book and verse. All translations are mine. See for example Kathleen Long, “The Representation of Violence in the Works of Théodore d’Aubigné,” in Repossessions: Psychoanalysis and the Phantasms of Early Modern Culture, ed. Timothy Murray and Alan K. Smith (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), pp. 142–67; Gisèle Mathieu-Castellani, “Violences d’Aubigné,” in Poétiques d’Aubigné, ed. Olivier Pot (Geneva: Droz, 1999), pp. 17–31; or Jean-Charles Monferran, “Écrire la violence dans les Tragiques: Réflexions sur la plume et le glaive chez Agrippa d’Aubigné,” Le Verger 8 (2015), pp. 1–12. Long and Monferran, among others, foregrounded the question of symbolic and other forms of violence in Les Tragiques. These forms of violence are of course intrinsically related to the problem of civil war but they are not identical to it. Céard goes so far as to suggest that the monde à l’envers is “le cœur même du livre” (the essence of the book) (p. 118) and that turning the world from its head back on its feet is

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5.

6. 7.

8. 9.

10. 11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19.

20.

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the hopeful message of Les Tragiques. Céard, “Le thème du monde à l’envers dans l’œuvre d’Agrippa d’Aubigné,” in L’image du monde renversé et ses représentations littéraires et para-littéraires de la fin du XVIe siècle au milieu du XVIIe siècle, ed. Jean Lafond and Augustin Redondo (Paris: Vrin, 1979), pp. 117–27. See Ashley Voeks’s essay in this volume (“Comme au monde à l’envers: Mapping Injustice in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s ‘Chambre dorée,’” pp. 130–51.) for an analysis of the phrase monde à l’envers. “I want to portray France as an afflicted mother / Burdened with two children in her arms.” LT, “Misères,” 1.97–98. For a reading of France as the allegorical mother of twin sons and the ideological dilemmas this figuration of nation creates see Marcus Keller, Figurations of France: Literary Nation-Building in Times of Crisis (1550–1650) (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2011), pp. 41–76. See, for example, Kathleen Perry Long’s contribution in this volume, “Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques,” pp. 101–117. “Divided body.” LT, “Misères,” 1.132; “When I see come about the horrible tragedy Of the self-murderer, invincible to others, I also believe seeing a monstrous giant.” LT, “Misères,” 1.133–35. “Old, completely rotten body.” LT, “Misères,” 1.146. “As weak as it is big, the giant only keeps swelling his belly, This belly in which everything is pulling, into which everything enters, This false distributor of common fruit. Does not send the right food to its extremities anymore.” LT, “Misères,” 1.149–52. In my translation I follow Fanlo’s comment that excrements should be understood etymologically, designating “that which is being extracted,” here the nutrition derived from food (p. 271). “On his enormous body sits a tiny head.” LT, “Misères,” 1.158. Only the culprits of this life-threatening malfunctioning are thinly veiled: Fanlo reminds us in his annotation to this passage that since the Middle Ages, when the state was first imagined as a body, the belly was associated with financiers and magistrates (p. 270). And indeed, at the end of the allegory, financiers and justiciers are directly accused of profiting from the country’s woes: “Vous ventre de la France enflé des ses langueurs” (you, belly of France, inflated by its languors). LT, “Misères” 1.167. For an astute reading of one such scene of disembowelment in “Les Fers,” see Long’s contribution to this volume, pp. 107–9. “For and against us.” LT, Preface, p. 42. “Horrible beast.” LT, “Misères,” 1.157. “For, to show how in the midst of the destruction Man in no longer a man, he eats Herbs, carrion, unprepared food, Robbing meals prepared for animals.” LT, “Misères,” 1.311–14. LT, “Misères,” 1.497; 1.522; 1.542. Katherine Maynard reads Aubigné’s poetic description of breakdown of community as an effort to rebuild Huguenot solidarity at a time when it seems more endangered than ever. See Maynard, Reveries of Community: French Epic in the Age of Henri IV, 1572–1616 (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2018), pp. 101–26. “Man falls victim to man, becomes wolf to his likes.

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22. 23.

24.

25.

26.

27.

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The father strangles the son in his bed, and the coffin, Prepared for the son, invites the father. The brother inherits from his brother before his time: They find ways, new crimes, Unknown poisons, or bloody knives Get to work in broad daylight, and raging vice And public murder carry the name of justice.” LT, “Misères,” 1.211–18. Other forms of war can, of course, also lead to a breakdown of civilization, especially in the regions where it is fought. They can pose existential threats to one’s physical subsistence and lead to the loss of one’s kin. They certainly can end with no clear victory for anybody involved. But it is the combination of all these factors and the certainty with which they will happen that define in “Misères” the form of war that we (mis-) characterize as civil war. Aristotle, Poetics, trans. Stephen Halliwell (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), p. 75. For a comprehensive discussion of references to tragedy in Les Tragiques, arguing that the tragic is “essential” (p. 245) to the poem, see Jean Céard, “Tragique et tragédie chez Agrippa d’Aubigné,” Studi di letteratura francese 18 (1990), pp. 245–57. For a sustained discussion of Les Tragiques as a tragedy see Richard L. Regosin, The Poetry of Inspiration: Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques (Chapell Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1970), pp. 27–54. How deliberately Aubigné manipulates styles and genres in Les Tragiques becomes clear early on in the note to the readers (“Aux lecteurs”), in which each book is characterized by its own hybrid style, for instance “bas et tragicque” (low and tragic) (p. 226) in the case of “Misères” or “tragicque elevé” (more highly tragic) (p. 227) for “Les Fers.” Questions of the poem’s style and genre have preoccupied many critics. Michel Jeanneret, and Jean-Raymond Fanlo “Les styles d’Agrippa d’Aubigné,” Studi francesi 32 (1967), pp. 246–57, Tracés, ruptures: La composition instable des Tragiques (Paris: Champion, 1990). Jean-Raymond Fanlo also detects “une complexité, voire une instabilité nouvelles” (a new complexity and even instability) in the work and its title. He understands the latter as a reference to Virgil’s Géorgiques, Ovid’s Tristes, and other titles of collections of classical poetry. Fanlo, “Les Tragiques d’Agrippa d’Aubigné: Un titre et sa portée,” Études françaises 44 (2008), pp. 107–18. “Dishevelled, hideous, and wailing.” LT, “Misères,” 1.82; “O desolate France! O blood-soaked earth, Not earth but ashes! O mother, if she can be called a mother Who betrays her children in the very sweetness of her breast, And when they are struck down, strangles them with her hand.” LT, “Misères,” 1.89–92. It should be noted that critics who include Les Tragiques in their broader discussions of Renaissance epic also grapple considerably with the poem’s status as epic. Besides Maynard, see for instance Thomas M. Greene, who concludes that Aubigné refuses traditional epic form to “thr[o]w open his poem to formlessness and immobility,” The Descent from Heaven: A Study in Epic Continuity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), p. 275; or David Quint, who classifies Les Tragiques as an “anti-epic” and highlights Aubigné’s “ambivalence. . .toward the genre of epic,” Epic and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), p. 207.

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28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

33.

34. 35.

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Aristotle, Poetics, p. 121. LT, “Aux lecteurs,” p. 228. “Misères” is explicitly said to evoke pity by painting “un tableau piteux du royaume en general” (a pitiful picture of the kingdom in general). “Aux lecteurs,” p. 136. For Frank Lestringant, the title’s reference to tragedy is indicative of the poem’s “theatrical aesthetics,” enabling readers to see and hear the violence of civil war in front of them and producing a visceral experience (p. 59). Lestringant, “L’empire de la tragédie,” in Agrippa d’Aubigné: Les Tragiques (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1986), pp. 59–84. “Watch this tragedy, lower your pride. / You are not spectators, you are characters.” LT, “Misères,” 1.169–70. In her reading of the Tragiques as a piece of testimonial literature, Andrea Frisch comes to a similar conclusion when she diagnoses that the poem makes “complex and indeed contradictory claims. . .on its audience” (p. 99). Frisch, “Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Tragiques as Testimony,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-Century France, ed. David LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 97–111. This interpretation of the implied place of the reader differs from Maynard’s who, focusing on ekphrasis in “Les Fers,” proposes that the poet ultimately emerges as a “new type of epic hero” and that his readers, too, turn out to be “heroic” (Maynard, Reveries of Community, p. 125). Taken together, however, our divergent readings show how Aubigné’s poetics attempt to transplant the inner tensions of his poem, and of civil war, into the readers who find themselves assigned a tragic and an epic role. Aristotle, Poetics, p. 53. Michel de Montaigne, Les Essais, ed. V. L. Saulnier (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2004), p. 963.

Ashley Voeks

8 Comme au monde à l’envers: Mapping Injustice in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s “Chambre dorée” Introduction When a traveler feels lost – in a new city, perhaps – a sure path to comfort is the presence of a map. Whether a blue dot on a smartphone or the words “You are here” on a color-coded signpost, reference points have the power to reorient the disoriented, even if the impression is entirely false. The map, a veritable cartographic companion in this familiar scenario, gives the traveler the illusion of occupying a stable environment, of fitting in somewhere in a navigable landscape. Readers and authors, travelers and shapers of textual worlds, use and often depend on maps to establish their bearings. This is particularly apparent in literature of warfare, where subject matter often arises from feelings of disorientation or displacement.1 Literature treating the French Civil Wars offers an especially poignant area of inquiry, as decades of internecine conflict altered religious, social, economic, and physical landscapes. According to some early modern writers who experienced these wars, a resounding effect was an entirely unrecognizable, unnavigable early seventeenth-century France. For Protestant poet and soldier Agrippa d’Aubigné, civil war not only disfigured France, but on a much larger scale, it entirely reversed the navigable world, “comme au monde à l’envers.”2 If a reader who is familiar with Aubigné’s Tragiques were asked to draw up his infamous monde à l’envers, what exactly would it look like? As the expression suggests, it would resemble an inverted world map. Mapping an inverted world proves no simple task, and in fact, Aubigné spends the first three of seven books in his Tragiques attempting to do so.3 Aubigné effectively paints the war-torn “mère affligée” in Book 1, “Misères,” subsequently exposing the guilty parties in Book 2, “Princes,” but it is not until Book 3, “La Chambre dorée,” that the Protestant enters the wolf’s den to begin his search for justice lost.4 The topsy-turvy world into which Aubigné draws his readers has proven a rich subject of study. Scholars generally agree that a perverted sense of justice is the principal disorienting component that shapes Les Tragiques. JeanRaymond Fanlo puts it plainly: “c’est la perversion de l’injustice qui entraîne les persécutions religieuses auxquelles succèdent les guerres et massacres.”5 https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-009

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More recently, Andrea Frisch powerfully summarizes this all-consuming relationship between injustice and persecution, writing that in Aubigné’s France, “injustice was the overriding principle of French justice.”6 Phillip John Usher, in his extensive consideration of how Aubigné processes this injustice, posits vice-ridden France as “provoking the poet into imagining what the return of Justice might resemble” – an act of imagining that becomes, of course, a poetic search of the infected premises.7 To determine where justice went wrong or to find stable ground from a place of injustice, the most practical response would have been for Aubigné to map it out. “La Chambre dorée,” I argue, embodies such a response – it is an attempt to map the injustices to which interpersonal and institutional notions of the French justice system have fallen victim. In pursuing this argument, I trace Aubigné’s steps from the book’s entry point toward its final lines, as he navigates “La Chambre dorée” and its spatial environs.8 The landscapes to be traversed are multi-dimensional, furnishing numerous lookout posts that give readers access to both familiar and faraway places, sites, and structures. Rather than attempting to be exhaustive in my survey of Book 3, I focus on spaces and spatial features that most clearly delineate Aubigné’s vision of a world ruled by injustice. In other words, examples are brought to the fore if and when they add points and lines that are necessary to visualize the poet’s cartographic endeavor. As we, the readers, follow Aubigné through “La Chambre dorée,” so too must our approach. Aubigné, as Michel Jeanneret so aptly puts it, “handles the pen like a sword,” wielding his words with purpose, striking high and low, perpetually moving.9 Movement in “La Chambre dorée” not only occurs through Aubigné’s infamous poetic diction, but also through narrative, which Usher describes as “somewhat jumpy and non-linear.”10 Indeed, the poet carries his readers to different locales at different points in time as the book progresses, thus requiring an approach that is flexible and suited for such motion. With the overall aim of exploring Aubigné’s spatial conceptions of injustice, I lay out the following course for the present reading of “La Chambre dorée.” I begin with a discussion of architectural spaces, looking first at the Palais de Justice, a tangible building and home to the kingdom’s renowned sovereign court, as well as the foundering pillar of Justice that pervades Aubigné’s inverted worldview. This architectural perspective shifts as Aubigné directs our gaze toward the victims of judiciary abuses, entering the intimate spaces of the Palais de Justice, where the bodies of Protestants are the flesh and blood mortar of the judges’ quarters. In a second section I turn, as does the poet, to geographic spaces. Aubigné, who signals his departure from Paris and its judicial chambers, takes his readers on a tour of sites of corruption both inside and outside

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France, spanning vast distances and geographic areas that broaden his mapping – and by extension, our mental map – of a monde à l’envers.

Architecture(s) of “La Chambre dorée” Drawing back the curtains and entering “La Chambre dorée” in medias res, the reader encounters a partially enclosed area: “Au palais flamboiant du haut ciel empire. . .Sous un grand pavillon d’un grand arc de couleurs.”11 The burning palace recalls the final scenes of “Princes,” where Aubigné instructs the faithful to flee Sodom and Gomorrah, two cityscapes likewise engulfed in flames: “Fuyez Loths de Sodome et Gomorrhe bruslantes.”12 On the one hand, the continuum between one book’s end and the other’s beginning alleviates to an extent the disorienting effect of an opening in medias res, which spatial theorist Robert Tally describes as a kind of “cartographic anxiety.”13 On the other hand, this first scene has the potential to induce a certain degree of anxiety, as movement from one set of burning buildings to another is, by all accounts, destabilizing. A conflicted state, somewhere between lost and found, is precisely the mindset that Aubigné creates for his readers. The outset of “La Chambre dorée” is significant in this regard, as momentary disorientation, one could claim, allows Aubigné to instill his text with a sense of authority, to set the reader straight. Indeed, Aubigné reveals a sortie de secours that may facilitate navigation, albeit a purely textual one: the palace itself, a firm architectural point of reference. The architectural structure to which the term palais generally refers in Les Tragiques is the Palais de Justice de Paris, wherein sat the Parlement de Paris.14 The parlements scattered across early modern France comprised a network of sovereign courts, each holding varied degrees of influence in the context of Reformation movements. The judicial body in Paris, in particular, maintained authority across nearly half the kingdom, namely in northern and central regions. Sylvie Daubresse articulates the high esteem in which Aubigné’s contemporaries, though certainly not the Huguenot soldier-poet, may have held the Parlement de Paris: “Détaché de la curia regis depuis le XIIIe siècle, le parlement de Paris est la cour souveraine la plus ancienne et la plus élevée en dignité. Il est le seul parlement du royaume jusqu’en 1420, date de la création du parlement de Toulouse.. . .Il considère sa compétence comme suprême et se place au-dessus de toutes les autres cours.”15 As Daubresse suggests, the Parlement de Paris was, perhaps above all, a symbolic site of power, and yet for some, only by extension was it a literal one. In other words, it was the

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institution’s long temporal and geographic reach that had concretized an immense amount of political weight around the architectural structure. A series of ordinances issued during Louis IX’s reign incited a significant increase in appeals at the Palais, and, subsequently, the rapid expansion of nearly every facet of this judicial center: “Les réunions ‘en parlement’ de la Cour du roi sont de plus en plus fréquentes, le nombre des clercs et des maîtres chargés d’administrer la justice augmente, de nouveaux espaces sont aménagés pour leur permettre d’exécuter leurs tâches. Le Palais est agrandi.”16 As judicial clout grew, so did the structures in which their operations were housed. In Aubigné’s era of civil conflict, however, the large plant was less sturdy in its small pot. The French Wars of Religion, for historian William Monter, “wreaked enormous damage on the King’s appellate court system,” threatening an end “in virtual chaos” for the royal Parlements.17 In “La Chambre dorée,” this chaos has a physical outline and personified silhouette. Justice, an allegorical pillar with highly relevant implications in the celestial and earthly realms that Aubigné evokes, first appears before her throne in a state of utter disorder: A ce trosne de gloire arriva gemissante La Justice fuitive en sueurs pantelante, Meurtrie et deschiree, aux yeux serains de Dieu, Les anges retirez luy aiant donné lieu: La pauvrette couvrant sa face desolee De ses cheveux trempez, faisoit eschevelee Un voile entre elle est Dieu.18

Here Justice is gravely wounded, disheveled, demoralized, and, most notably, veiled.19 By placing a veil over Justice, Aubigné effectively renders her an absent presence, an anchor point on a map with no key. The obvious commentary is that locating lawful and moral conduct is, at present, impossible.20 The real Justice is in need of mending, and her equal and opposite force, Injustice, is still at large. As predominantly celestial scenes give way to terrestrial chaos, Aubigné adjusts his compass and redirects his course toward judiciary France, shifting the notion of spectacle from the “cieux purs, le beau païs des ames” to the “quelques lieux” where an early seventeenth-century reader may witness the indulgent pleasures of “quelque empereur ou roy tenant sa cour.”21 Subsequently, in an eye-for-an-eye parallel between the shaken earth and the culprit’s future chastisement, God rises “en courroux”22 to destroy his surroundings: “Et lorsque tout le monde est en frayeur ensemble, / Que l’abisme profond en ses cavernes tremble: / Les chrestiens seulement affligez sont

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ouis.”23 As is to be expected, God spares the faithful from the collapse of the underground cavern walls. Rising up from these dark depths, a deceivingly different structure – but in reality analogous, as the reader soon learns – prompts a bout of contemplation: Rien si pres de son œil, que la brave rencontre D’un gros amas de tours, qui eslevé se monstre Dedans l’air plus hautain, cet orgueil tout nouveau De pavillons dorez faisoit un beau chasteau Plein de lustre, et d’esclat, dont les cimes poinctues Braves contre le ciel mi-partissoient les nües: Sur ce premier object Dieu tient longuement l’œil.24

Just as the grandiose form, pristine luster, and sharp architectural features of the landmark merit a long look, its “pavillons dorez,” for Aubigné, also deserve closer, more careful consideration.25 Following several vivid illustrations of what God sees when he descends from his vantage point “pour voir de plus prés” the happenings within “ces fiers bastiments,”26 Aubigné further locates the horrors recounted: “Encor falut-il voir cette chambre doree / De justice jadis, d’or maintenant paree / Par dons, non par raison.”27 The reader, upon entering the once highly ornate chambers of the Parlement de Paris, houses of justice by design, confronts the lasting aftermath of Injustice’s tour. Aubigné then zooms in on his own map, further de-pixelating this site of injustice through other spatial markers that designate the Palais de Justice. The poet reveals a “throsne eslevé” and a “lict de jugement,” for example, evoking a landscape of conflict in which the reader is torn between majestic and lowly places of repose.28 Landing in either the high or low seat, however, may be a matter of chance for the incautious map reader, as evidenced by the materialtemporal blindfold of the “bandeau des anciens.”29 In addition to an inability to fully visualize the present, here Aubigné’s mention of les Anciens seems to warn readers against nurturing an ill-examined relationship to history – a veritable roadblock on the path to justice. Those who prosper from skewed histories are, according to Aubigné, the corrupt judges of his era, while the victims are mother France and her children.30 A notable feature of Les Tragiques is indeed this incessant return to the afflicted, to the literal bodies at the crux of post-Reformation France. Critical scholarship has often viewed the human body in Les Tragiques through the lens of violence, from violent rhetoric to actual torment experienced by sentient beings. While these perspectives are valuable, they offer little by way of the body’s constructive or destructive impact on the worlds in which they operate.31 Bodies, as Aubigné

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shows his readers, also build, tear down, and resurface innumerous landscapes, from the social, economic, and political to the natural, urban, and textual. Hence, our poet’s vision of sixteenth-century France posits the persecuted as the mortar of judicial institutions. In “La Chambre dorée,” these bodies are the vital building blocks of a representative model of injustice and serve a key architectural function for the poet’s readership. In contextualizing bodies that have fallen victim to judiciary abuses, Aubigné often relies on a blazon-like modality to stage carnal and multisensory encounters between the reader and instances of injustice. This approach places heavy emphasis on bodily imagery, and in such a way that the poet generates a violent and human representation of the cause-effect relationship between the ill-doings of one group and the miseries of another. The aforementioned scene in which God descends from his celestial palace to see “en quel estat vivoient les justiciers” offers a case in point.32 Here readers, alongside God and the poet, enter a structure built from the heads of the deceased, human remains, ashes, and blood: Mais Dieu trouva l’estoffe et les durs fondements Et la pierre commune à ces fiers bastiments D’os de testes de morts, au mortier execrable Les cendres des bruslez avoient servi de sable, L’eau qui les destrempoit estoit du sang versé.33

Infusing the reader’s experience of his or her surroundings with body parts, Aubigné effectively creates a violent result onto which he then grafts the cause. Entering deeper into the palace, the reader observes a judiciary figure mid-meal, among “Lycaons”34: Nous avons parmy nous cette gent cannibale, Qui de son vif gibier le sang tout chaud avalle, Qui au commencement par un trou en la peau Succe, sans escorcher, le sang de son troupeau, Puis acheve le reste, et de leurs mains fumantes Portent à leur palais bras et mains innocentes, Font leur chair de la chair des orphelins occis.35

While the site of corruption is quite tangibly represented as a banquet hall at the Palais de Justice, the body parts comprising the bulk of the meal delineate the extent to which the judges have devastated the very people whom the judicial system is meant to serve. Even the verbs in this scene of carnage – avaler, succer, écorcher, achever, and porter – call to mind the gluttonous desires that devastate the defenseless bodies in question.

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In like manner, those deemed responsible for the victims’ sufferings are to a certain extent blazoned, meaning that Aubigné defines them largely by their physicality: Quel monstre voi-je encor ? une dame bigotte, ... ... ... ... . Son habit de couleurs et chiffres bigarré, Soubs un vieil chaperon, un gros bonnet quarré.36

Emphasizing the outward appearance of the “dame bigotte,” as well as the physical attributes of victims, allows Aubigné to give life to corruption’s silhouette, which may in turn encourage his readers to locate villainy in the landscapes they encounter.37 Injustice, our poet seems to say, is not an abstract construct that negatively impacts the vulnerable. Rather, Injustice is a living, breathing creature with human features. In addition to the infamous scenes of judges feasting on the innocent, representations of known victims enhance the already lucid cartographic function of bodies. For Aubigné, the bodies of martyrs, in particular, form a defining structural feature of the era in which he writes, the Protestant cause that fuels his pen, and the pens of his most admired contemporaries.38 Indeed, much like the sixteenth-century martyrologies that guide Aubigné’s poetic and historical reconstructions of martyrological accounts, the martyr tableaux of Les Tragiques are essential to unearthing sources of Protestant oppression. In contrast to the above-examined physical qualities that our poet ascribes to nameless evils and misfortunes, he also furnishes the gilded chambers of Book 3 with actual and exemplary Protestant martyrs: On pense remarquer en cet humble troupeau Cavagne, et Briquemault, signalez du cordeau, Mongommery y va appuié d’une lance, Le tres vaillant Montbrun puni de sa vaillance: Et mesmes à troupeaux marche le demeurant De ceux qui ont gagné leur procez en mourant.39

Referencing known victims has the immediate effect of reeling notions of injustice back toward a real-world context, essentially blurring the lines between highly graphic, imaginative scenes of horror and more solemn scenes of witnessed persecution.40 Furthermore, although the later book,“Les Feux,” is structured to mirror the martyrology more closely, here Aubigné importantly harnesses the prototypical rhetoric of martyrdom to communicate judicial victory.41 The adjective “vaillant” and its noun form “vaillance,” for example, are clear indicators of heroic

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deeds.42 Additionally, the past participle “gagné” serves to evoke glory through death and, of course, a “procez” won.43 Early modern readers would have been familiar with and receptive to this rhetoric, not only from an awareness of widely-circulated sixteenth-century martyrologies, but also from the Bible.44 Given the many transparent associative possibilities, Aubigné proves quite effective in likening the four men in his tableau to martyrs. Analyzed in spatial terms, the martyrdom tableau allows our poet to establish a palpable and physical point of reference on an otherwise complex and at times abstract map. Whether an orphan or respected Huguenot, whether an imagined or allegedly witnessed scene, the martyr’s body provides a supple canvas onto which Aubigné may draft accounts of persecution, thus further articulating his model of injustice. Shifting to the glorious martyr’s antithetical oppressor, Aubigné employs an associative technique, similar to the one analyzed above, to etch his reproach not onto the flesh-and-blood bodies of victims, but once again onto the architectural structures wherein Injustice reigns. The reader’s focal point veers in multiple directions, moving in rapid succession across an array of spaces housing groups of victims, such as the “grand tour” holding “un senat prisonnier.”45 Aubigné then enumerates the key holders alongside their artisanal sites: Juges, sergents, curez, confesseurs, et bourreaux, Tels artisans un jour par changements nouveaux Metamorphoseront leurs temples venerables En cavernes de gueux, les cloistres en estables, En criminels tremblants, les senateurs grisons, En gibet le palais, et le Louvre en prisons.46

The thrust of these comparisons lies in their ability to destabilize an image in perfect harmony. A lexicon of change and renewal in lines 880 and 881, for example, coincides with the balanced repetition evoking the renovated spaces of lines 882–84. In this way, Aubigné molds an image of institutional corruption by reshaping familiar sites through a set of poetic devices that allow a reader to conceptualize, at multiple levels, the metamorphosed architectural features of “La Chambre dorée.”

Geographies of “La Chambre dorée” Architectural elements can enhance and facilitate the reader’s engagement with maps. If designed to lead rather than mislead, these elements function as

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reference points that aid the reader in his or her cognitive and physical navigation of space.47 For cartographers, too, architectural features serve as tools for visualizing and realizing their aims. For Aubigné, the map maker of “La Chambre dorée,” architectural features allow him to better visualize injustice, to plot out his conception of the monde à l’envers of early modern France. Urban planner Kevin Lynch describes along similar lines the functional value that itinerant individuals ascribe to a landscape’s visible structures. More specifically, he notes that any identifiable element of an environmental image – in the sense of distinct, in the mind of the onlooker – “must have some meaning for the observer, whether practical or emotional.”48 In Les Tragiques, the emotive level, as the poet himself emphasizes and has been thoroughly studied, is a given.49 While I have analyzed the practical level with regard to literal and metaphoric architectures, a traveler’s experience of a landscape importantly entails his or her encounters with surface features and shapes. Geographic elements – including landmarks, cultural sites, regions, and other features of different locales – are inherent to any landscape, whether physical or literary, and thus contribute to our current project of piecing together Aubigné’s map-making process, of reading “La Chambre dorée” as a map of a monde à l’envers. In the second half of Book 3, in particular, our poet broadens his horizons, in the sense of traversing greater distances in his mise en scène of judiciary abuses. Aubigné, having scrupulously surveyed the Palais de Justice, “la bouticque / Où de vies et de biens l’Injustice trafficque,”50 recalls the luminous, deceptive reflections of its mirrored halls before signaling an imminent departure: “Ce palais, du grand juge avoit tiré la veüe / Par le lustre, et l’esclat qui brilloit dans la nüe: / En voicy un second.”51 Here Aubigné sheds light, figuratively and at the lexical level, on subsequent examples of sites of injustice. The first site, a “funeste chasteau,” evokes a profound sense of obscurity and appears in stark contrast to the above-mentioned luster: “Un funeste chasteau, dont les tours assemblees / Ne monstroient par dehors que grilles redoublees, / Tout obscur, tout puant, c’est le palais, le fort / De l’Inquisition, le logis de la mort.”52 Although “chasteau” points to an architectural structure, the noun could designate countless sites. An uneasily locatable referent by name alone, the castle does not seem to function as an actual, historically explicit place of interest, as does the Palais de Justice. The “obscur. . .puant” referent serves, above all, the poet’s interest in creating for his reader a sense of remoteness, of unpleasant unfamiliarity with the present setting. Furthermore, the use of enjambment adds suspense to this expository passage, compelling readers to interrogate their whereabouts. Ultimately, Aubigné paves the way to “le fort / De l’Inquisition,” a site far beyond the now familiar gilded court chambers.

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Aubigné does indeed establish a connection between the prison cell and the Inquisition, but perhaps not wanting to reveal too much too soon, he waits to further localize this space of confinement in geographic terms. References to “le Taureau d’airain” and “les grillons ferrez,” for example, two well-known means of torture, could denote any number of institutions comprising the Inquisition from twelfth-century France and beyond.53 Having put forth objects that a reader may associate with familiar cultural sites, and, more importantly, the injustices that are committed there, Aubigné at long last places the “guerriers hazardeux”54 in a geographic context: “Les trompettes devant: quelque plus vieil soldart / Porte dans le milieu l’infernal estendart, / Où est peint Ferdinand, sa compagne Ysabelle, / Et Sixte Pape, autheurs de la secte bourrelle.”55 On the one hand, the lexicon of war, with its “trompettes” and “estendart,” encourages a combative, wartime mindset. On the other, this important passage signals the reader’s physical presence in a barricaded, battlefield-like space. Of course, in most cases the battlefield has defined and readily apparent boundaries. Likewise, the aforementioned prison cell has wellmarked edges, as does the banner “où est peint” some of the many faces of Injustice: Ferdinand, Isabella, and Pope Sixtus IV. All textual cues, then, from the reader’s first glimpse of the foreign castle to the wall hangings within, produce a confined, battlefield-like environment. The final component of this fascinating compartmentalization technique is our poet’s treatment of the geographic border of Spain, wherein the authors of the Inquisition and its “artisans cruels” reside.56 Aubigné presents Spain as much more than an isolated source of religious oppression, likening its lands to a venomous snake whose poison has seeped beyond the borders: “Ce venin espagnol aux autres nations / Communique en courant telles inventions.”57 In the midst of this reproach, Aubigné intensifies his stylistic strategy to mold an image of the reader’s current coordinates that is dominated by corruption: “Tremblez juges, sachez que le juge des cieux / Tient de chacun des siens le sang tres-pretieux: / Quand vous signez leur mort, cette clause est signee, / Que leur sang soit sur nous et sur nostre lignee.”58 Here our poet employs the second person plural imperative to address ecclesiastical judges who have overstepped their authoritative boundaries in administering death sentences. In so doing, Aubigné traces the trajectory of these judges, and the judgement that awaits them, in the figurative blood lines of the men and women whom they convicted. Aubigné then enumerates their crimes, using anaphora to evoke passion among his readership and to instill his map with a sense of emotive authority.59 Authority in its broadest sense, as Mark Monmonier tells us, is a common cartographic goal that mapmakers often achieve through the use of toponyms

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and, perhaps one could add, eponyms that denote certain locales.60 Aubigné’s portraits of los Reyes Católicos, in addition to an open denouncement of the “venin espagnol,” are indeed highly transparent referents.61 Moreover, this method of infusing geographic reference points with vivid scenes of social injustice, to modify an expression from Ricardo Padrón, is a kind of “lyric cartography,” or verse that leads the reader to map a particular image or space, “whether on paper or in his or her imagination.”62 Practicing lyric cartography is especially useful to Aubigné, as it allows him to weave together common threads of religious oppression across time and space. In his series of “feintes tragedies” for example, our poet depicts “les empoisonneurs des esprits” who “conduisent jusqu’aux flammes / Ceux qui portent de Christ en leurs membres la croix.”63 Here Aubigné merges the Roman oppression of early Christians with that of later evangelical martyrs who are reduced to “pretieuses graines.”64 Aubigné narrows his scope in ensuing passages, moving from the large temporal and geographic fields that God, like the reader, negotiates when processing the injustices that plague his “plantes divines,”65 to closer and firm, recognizable ground: “cet artisan supresme / Tire de mort la vie, et du mal, le bien mesme: / Il reserre noz pleurs en ses vases plus beaux, / Escrit en son register eternal tous noz maux: / D’Italie, d’Espagne, Albion, France, et Flandres.”66 Just as Aubigné funnels death, pain, and tears into one vase, he also filters his geographic scope into a set of place names. The reader may, in turn, utilize these toponyms in grafting the previously encountered tragedies onto precise locations. In a final tour de force on our tour of sites of corruption, Aubigné urges the reader to look elsewhere, to travel beyond “La Chambre dorée” when locating the “puants vocables” who “ont changé mon style et mon sens à l’envers” and give life to Injustice67: “Cerchez-les au parquet, et non plus en mes vers: / Tout fuit, les uns tirans en basse Normandie, / Autres en Avignon où ce mal prit sa vie.”68 The first space, the “parquet” of line 928, denotes a “partie d’une salle de justice où se tiennent les juges.”69 These implied judicial chambers correspond, of course, to specific regions and their dismal track records as sites of justice, according to our poet. Secondly, Aubigné points to a group geographically situated in Normandy, a “théâtre marquant” during the Wars of Religion.70 A third coordinate, Avignon, also invites the reader to localize Injustice. For Aubigné and like-minded Huguenots, “the city of antipopes” is a geographic hub from which Justice was forced to flee.71 Alongside Paris, Avignon and its environs represent sites where unknowing future victims and corrupt accomplices laid the foundation for the papal residence, essentially building a home for Injustice.

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From Normandy in northern France and to Avignon in the south, Aubigné’s compass goes full circle, leading the reader to western and eastern extremities: Je crain bien que quelqu’un plus viste et plus habile Dans le Poictou plaideur cerchera son azyle, Vous ne verrez jamais le train que nous disons Se sauver en Suisse, ou entre les Grisons, Nations de Dieu seul, et de nul autre serfve.72

To the west lies Poitou, where the Protestant population’s “geographical and social distribution” gave members of this minority group “a weight beyond their numbers.”73 Given Poitou’s well-documented periods of both intolerance and coexistence in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a possible interpretation of Aubigné’s remarks is a sincere concern for the future of these Protestant communities.74 Employing the future tense, Aubigné tells his readers that they will never see (“ne verrez jamais”) the aforementioned enemy flee to Switzerland to the east or to its eastern canton of Grisons.75 From Aubigné’s vantage point, one that covers all four cardinal directions, Injustice has found fertile breeding ground in France. Tracing her steps, however, may prove difficult. As the above-mentioned passages suggest, Injustice is always on the move, and Protestants beyond France’s borders are not exempt from the threat she poses. Fittingly, Aubigné crosses additional geographic boundaries to add the “invincible Anglois” and “Escossois valeureux” to his map.76 Invincibility and valor, however, are not sustainable qualities. They, just as personal conviction, as Aubigné knows well, are inclined to change: “il n’y a rien sous le haut firmament / Perdurable en son estre et franc du changement.”77 Aubigné then directs this poignant warning at supposed sympathizers in neighboring lands: “Souisses et Grisons et Anglois et Bataves, / Si l’injustice un jour vous peut voir ses esclaves: / Si la vile chicane administre voz loix.”78 It is entirely possible, our poet suggests, that the same injustices as those endured by Protestants in France will seep past her borders and infect these other realms. Subsequently, Aubigné re-enumerates the set of geographic locations, shifting from the second-person plural to the second-person singular, and also changes the word order, presumably for the sake of rhyme: “Alors Grison, Souisse, et Batave et Anglois, / N’atten point que la peur en tes esprits se jette / Par le regard affreux d’un menaçant comete: / Pren ta mutation pour comete au malheur.”79 This repetitive sequence of warnings, as Jean-Raymond Fanlo confirms, offers a pointed critique: “Aubigné reproche à l’Angleterre, aux Pays Bas et à la Suisse de ne pas soutenir les réformés. . .et de rester passif face aux menaces catholiques.”80 In terms of the poet’s stylistic choices, repetition and

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enumeration are used in his typical hyperbolic way, likewise revealing a pointed critique. Aubigné’s stylistically charged language suggests the vastness of oppression and underscores, by synecdoche, the fact that instances of injustice are not limited to France. This latter portion of “La Chambre dorée” posits France’s civil wars as an international affair, which partially explains Aubigné’s constant compartmentalization of geographic areas.81 In navigating this global interest, he infuses his text with coordinates as a cartographer would a map. Moving the focal point to England, Aubigné pulls the reader back in time and closes the door of a holding cell, “ta salle. . .la sellette,” sat Elizabeth I from 1554 to 1558: “La main qui te ravit de la geolle en ta salle, / Qui changea la sellette en la chaire royalle, / Et le sueil de la mort en un degré si haut, / Qui fit un tribunal d’un funeste eschaffaut.”82 The hand holding the queen ultimately delivers her from confinement, signalling her “royalle” departure as an entryway to the “si haut” afterlife. Her encounter with cases of injustice in the “tribunal,” then, is only a brief stop in her ascension. Fittingly, Aubigné systematically enlarges the spaces in which she successfully overcomes a series of trials and tribulations. Moving from the affairs of her “lions domestiques,” Aubigné takes the reader to sea: “Tes haineux à tes bords brisent leurs exercites: / Les mers avec les vents, l’air haut, moien, et bas, / Et le ciel, partisans liguez à tes combats, / Les foudres et les feux chocquent pour ta victoire.”83 Through a series of geographic lexical items, Aubigné effectively creates a cartographic representation of one nation’s affairs and blends them with another. In this case, our “reine de la mer” is in dialogue with Philip II’s Invincible Armada, the enormous maritime expedition meant to destroy the English nation. For the reader, this scene offers yet another means of contextualizing, of mapping forms of injustice through geographic markers in “La Chambre dorée.”

Conclusion From the opening lines of “La Chambre dorée,” where readers stand at the entryway of a burning palace, to the final scenes, where mankind closes the doors on morality, letting violence and perversion shake the earth to its core, Aubigné is in continual search for Justice lost. Our poet, whose entire world is “out of joint,” as David Quint observes, provides readers with a kind of blueprint for visualizing the corruption and injustices that have effectively reversed all sense of order.84 Aubigné puts forth, as these pages have shown, a representative catalogue of sites of injustice, compelling us to participate in the accusations being made

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and, perhaps, to pass our own judgments based on what we encounter as we navigate the many landscapes, sites, structures, and places across Book 3 of Les Tragiques. Aubigné’s writing is, to no insignificant degree, spatially conceived. As I have argued, the spatial features that line the book’s paper walls are pivotal components in our poet’s attempt to map a concept of injustice, of un monde à l’envers – a map that guides the reader through an unapologetically partisan understanding of a Protestant past and future. Moreover, by linking the abstract and subjective idea of injustice to something physical, by “mapping it out,” Aubigné creates a material presence that allows the reader to better perceive and feel injustice – that is, he enhances the communicative effectiveness and immediacy of his writing by way of map-like representations. Indeed, Aubigné’s writing gives “the illusion of having ‘first-hand’ contact,” to borrow an expression from Tom Conley, with the world depicted, albeit reversed, in “La Chambre dorée” – a kind of contact that Conley is right to call one of the great pleasures afforded by so many early modern texts, including Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques.85

Endnotes 1. 2.

3. 4.

See Kathleen Long’s contribution to this volume for more on Aubigné’s jolting style (“Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques,” pp. 101–17). “Like in the upside-down world.” Aubigné, Les Tragiques, “Misères,” 1.235. All quotations from Les Tragiques come from Jean-Raymond Fanlo’s critical edition of Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2003). All subsequent citations referring to Les Tragiques (LT) use Arabic numerals 1–7 for the book number, followed by a period and the verse number. Translations are my own. Bruno Méniel, Renaissance de l’épopée: La poésie épique en France de 1572 à 1623 (Geneva: Droz, 2004), p. 186. Painting a portrait of France as an afflicted mother is Aubigné’s stipulated aim in “Misères”: “Je veux peindre la France une mère affligee” (I want to paint France as an afflicted mother). LT, “Misères,” 1.97. The mother-figure remains a constant presence throughout Les Tragiques, as well as his entire corpus. “Princes” opens with a direct address to those who, according to Aubigné, created the tragedies in question: Vous qui avez donné ce subject à ma plume, Vous-mesmes qui avez porté sur mon enclume Ce foudre rougissant aceré de fureur, Lisez-le, vous aurez horreur de vostre horreur. (You who gave this subject to my pen, You yourself who brought to my anvil This reddening lightning bolt sharp with fury,

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Read it, you will be horrified by your own horror.) LT, “Princes,” 2.9–2.12.

5.

6. 7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

Although Aubigné does in fact give an account of the spaces of “La Chambre dorée,” it is largely meant to be read as an account of God’s visit. God descends from heaven, as is mentioned elsewhere, to visit the earthly realm, and Paris, in particular. “It is the perversion of injustice that brings about the religious persecutions that the wars and massacres follow.” Jean-Raymond Fanlo, “La mobilité de la représentation dans les ‘Tragiques’ d’Agrippa d’Aubigné” (PhD diss., Université de Provence, 1990), p. 57. Andrea Frisch, Forgetting Differences: Tragedy, Historiography, and the French Wars of Religion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), p. 5. Phillip John Usher, Epic Arts in Renaissance France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), p. 177. The present work owes much to Usher’s Epic Arts in Renaissance France, which offers a compelling study of spatial possibilities in Les Tragiques. In his fourth chapter, “D’Aubigné’s Tragiques: A Wasteland of Graffiti,” Usher examines the relationship between Aubigné’s epic and other artistic forms of production, including architecture. Usher further defines this relationship as “a process, repeated throughout, of placing future visions over present visuals” (p. 165). For Usher, there is a clearly destructive intent that motivates Aubigné’s textualization of spaces and structures, which also serves the poet’s assertion of an eventual victory for Protestants. Regarding Aubigné’s “Chambre dorée,” in particular, Usher devotes a section of his chapter to the discussion of the Palais de Justice (pp. 171–81). Moving from the building’s exterior to its inside spaces, Usher convincingly shows how Aubigné appropriates Catholic and royal structures to express Protestant principles and truths (p. 181). For a study on the etymology of a particularly relevant concept to the experience of space in works of literature, I refer my reader to Mary Carruthers’s work on ductus and its synonyms in various discussions of rhetoric in late antiquity and the Middle Ages. Carruthers defines ductus as “the way by which a work leads someone through itself,” further noting that it “pertains always to some guiding movement within and through a work’s various parts” (pp. 190, 196). Carruthers focuses largely on stylistic or formal features, which are also of interest to the present study, though not exclusively so. Carruthers, “The Concept of Ductus, or, Journeying through a Work of Art,” in Rhetoric Beyond Words: Delight and Persuasion in the Arts of the Middle Ages, ed. Mary Carruthers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 190–213. Michel Jeanneret, Perpetual Motion: Transforming Shapes in the Renaissance from da Vinci to Montaigne, trans. Nidra Poller (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), p. 232. Usher, Epic Arts, p. 163. “In the burning palace from the heavens on high. . .Under a great canopy of a great arch of colors.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.1; 3.7. “Flee, Loth, from burning Sodom and Gomorrah.” LT, “Princes,” 2.1507. Robert T. Tally, Jr., Spatiality (London: Routledge, 2013), p. 1. Of the fourteen Parlements in present-day France, the following eight cities had established their respective palais by the late sixteenth century: Aix-en-Provence, Bordeaux, Dijon, Grenoble, Paris, Rennes, Rouen, and Toulouse. When Aubigné references a parlement that is not the Parlement de Paris, he often specifies its location, though not always directly. It should likewise be noted that I have chosen to use the original French parlement rather than parliament, following the lead of historian

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16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

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William Monter. Monter, Judging the French Reformation: Heresy Trials by SixteenthCentury Parlements (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). “Detached from the curia regis since the thirteenth century, the Parlement de Paris is the most ancient sovereign court and highest in dignity. It is the only parlement in the kingdom until 1420, date of the creation of the Parlement de Toulouse.. . .It considers its competence as supreme and places itself above all other courts.” Sylvie Daubresse, Le Parlement de Paris, ou la voix de la raison (1559–1589) (Geneva: Droz, 2005), p. 5. “The meetings ‘en parlement’ from the king’s court are more and more frequent, the number of clerks and personnel charged with administering justice augments, new rooms are installed to allow them to execute their tasks. The Palais is larger.” Colas, Du Palais du roi, pp. 4–5. One of the most important ordinances was that forbidding the judicial duel, the result of the trial of Enguerrand de Coucy in 1259. Additionally, Louis IX heightened the standard procedures for making an appeal in court. The result was an increase in cases of appeal and, quite naturally, an increase in “the rules governing them.” Earp, Kibler, and Zinn, Medieval France, p. 1009. Monter, Judging the French Reformation, p. 248. “To this throne of glory appeared moaning Fleeing Justice sweaty and panting, Wounded and suffering, in the serene eyes of God, The angels withdrew to make room for her: The poor thing covering her sorry face With her drenched hair, appearing disheveled A veil between her and God.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.33–39. Here I am referring to line 37 and the use of the diminutive “pauvrette” that, given the state of disrepair suggested elsewhere in this passage, most likely falls to the side of devaluation in the continuum of possible “affective connotations” ranging from “endearment to tenderness through mild belittlement or depreciation to outright derogation and insult.” Mary Haas, “Expression of the Diminutive,” in Language, Culture, and History, ed. Anwar S. Dil (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1978), p. 82. Based on the etymological information under the entry “justice” in the Trésor de la langue française, sixteenth-century concepts of this term could include either an individual’s conformity to God’s will or justice as determined by law and judicial processes. Trésor de la langue française informatisé (TLFI), ed. Jacques Dendien, Centre national de la recherche scientifique, http://www.atilf.fr/. “Pure skies, the beloved land of souls”; “some spaces”; “some emperor or king whilst holding his court.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.114; 3.123–25. “In anger.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.139. “And when all the world is in fear together, When the profound depths of its caverns tremble: Only the afflicted Christians are heard.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.153–55. “Nothing closer to his view than the great presence Of a large cluster of towers, which elevated appear Within the highest open area, this brand-new pride Of golden canopies made a beautiful castle Full of luster, and of radiance, of which the pointed heights Brave against the sky divided the clouds: On this first object God held his glance.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.165–71.

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25. 26.

27.

28.

29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

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“Golden canopies.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.168. “In order to see more closely”; “these proud buildings.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.175; 3.180. This episode can be found in LT, 3.187–226. I provide an analysis of the passage in the ensuing paragraphs. “Again must one see this gilded chamber Of bygone justice, of gold now adorned With gifts, not with reason.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.233–35. “Elevated throne”; “bed of judgement.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.237–44. The “lict de jugement” is likely a reference to the lit de justice, a kind of judicial ceremony that involved the king and magistrates at the Parlement, and that had long been a symbol for royal justice. As Sarah Hanley’s work has shown, the first three lit de justice assemblies were held in 1527 and 1537. Hanley, The Lit de Justice of the Kings of France: Constitutional Ideology in Legend, Ritual, and Discourse (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), p. 8. In a later study, Mack Holt addresses the evolution of the lit de justice in the early 1560s, arguing that during these years this judicial ceremony shifted from a “constitutional forum” to “royal weapon.” Mack Holt, “The King in Parlement: The Problem of the Lit de Justice in Sixteenth-Century France,” The Historical Journal 31, no. 3 (1988), p. 508. “Blindfold of the ancients.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.240. As previously mentioned, common themes in Les Tragiques are the mother-figure as France and her children as victims and perpetrators of violence. The most salient examples are arguably those of “Misères,” where there is “a recurrent degradation of various images of maternity” vis-à-vis “certain key figures” (Sarah Nelson, “The Poet’s War on Mothers: Iconoclasm in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques,” Cincinnati Romance Review 20 [2001], p. 93). Jacob-Esau and Cain-Abel tableaux, for example, exemplify the horrors committed by and between conflicting parties, at the expense of the mother. Additionally, one could argue that Aubigné’s depiction of the emaciated maternal figure simultaneously represents the undernourished reader who can no longer distinguish good from evil in the most authoritative historical sources. For further reading on the mother-figure in Aubigné’s writing, see Claude-Gilbert Dubois, “Les images de parenté dans Les Tragiques,” Europe 54 (1976), pp. 27–42; Marcus Keller, Figurations of France: Literary Nation-Building in Times of Crisis (1550–1650) (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2011), pp. 41–76; Kathleen Long, “Motherhood and Martyrdom in the Poetry of Agrippa d’Aubigné,” Neophilologus 76 (1992), pp. 198–211; and Gisèle Mathieu-Castellani , Agrippa d’Aubigné: Le corps de Jézabel (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1991), pp. 86–116. An exception is Marcus Keller’s article in this volume (“The Paradox of Civil War in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Tragiques”). See, in particular, pp. 120–1. where he discusses the implications of the image of the stomach and its relationship to the destructiveness of civil war in Les Tragiques. “In what state the justices were living.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.227. “But God found the material and the hard foundations And the common stone at these proud buildings Of bones of heads of the dead, in the heinous mortar The ashes of the burned had served as sand, The water which wet them was of spilled blood.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.179–83. LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.192.

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36.

37. 38.

39.

40.

41.

42. 43.

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“We have among us this cannibal people, Who in their ferocious hunt swallow the still hot blood, Who at first through a hole in the skin Suck, without flaying, the blood of their herd, Then finish the rest, and from their steaming hands Take to their palace innocent arms and hands, Make their skin from the skin of slain orphans.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.197–203. “What monster do I still see? A hypocritical woman, ... ... ... ... . Her colorful clothing and multicolored symbols, Under an old hood, a large square bonnet.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.477; 3.483–84. LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.477. For an informative study of early modern martyrdom in prominent Protestant and Catholic texts, I refer my reader to Frank Lestringant, Lumière des martyrs: Essai sur le martyre au siècle des Réformes (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2004). For an analysis of the intertextual relations between martyrdom in Aubigné’s Tragiques and Histoire Universelle, and his primary martyrological source, Jean Crespin’s Histoire des martyrs, see Katherine Maynard, “Writing Martyrdom: Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Reconstruction of Sixteenth-century Martyrology,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 30, no. 3 (2006), pp. 29–50. “We think we see among this humble flock Cavagne, and Briquemault, marked by rope, Mongommery is there leaning on a lance, The very valiant Montbrun punished for his valiance: And even in flocks walk the rest Of those who won their trial by dying.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.859–64. After they narrowly escaped death during the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Paris, Toulouse native Arnaud de Cavagne and the elderly François de Beauvais de Briquemault were arrested under the order of Charles IX. Both men were executed and hung in the Place de Grève, their bodies mutilated by the crowd. Likewise, in 1575 the Parlement de Grenoble ordered the execution of Charles du Puy-Montbrun, aptly named “le Brave” for his military prowess as a Huguenot leader in Dauphine. See Nikki Shepardson, Burning Zeal: The Rhetoric of Martyrdom and the Protestant Community in Reformation France, 1520–1570 (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press, 2007). LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.862. LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.864. Aubigné similarly exemplifies the zealous and celebratory nature of martyrdom in Book III’s early scenes, the first example taking place in God’s palace, the second depicting the journey toward heaven upon death in a prison cell: “De la maison de Dieu ils sentent le vray zele, Portent dedans le ciel les larmes, les souspirs, Et les gemissements des bienheureux martyrs. ... ... ... ... . . . .leurs corps par les feux, les cordes, les couteaux, Qui, libres au sortir des ongles des bourreaux,

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Toutes blanches au feu volent avec les flammes Pures dans les cieux purs, le beau païs des ames.” (From the house of God they feel true zeal, Taking to the sky the tears, worries, And the moans of the joyful martyrs. ... ... ... ... . . . .their bodies by way of flames, ropes, knives, Which, free from the grips of executioners, All white in the fire soar with the flames Pure across pure skies, the beloved land of souls.) LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.30–32; 3. 111–14.

44.

45. 46.

47.

48. 49.

50. 51.

52.

Like the innocent children who suffer at the hands of France’s corrupt judges, men treat earthly bodies with the same utensils that, in a right-side-up world, they would normally reserve for feasts. Contrary to this monde-à-l’envers imagery, the reader also learns that martyrdom liberates bodies from Injustice, rendering them “blanches au feu” and at peace in God’s celestial realms. In the Gospel of Mark, for example, Peter, James, and John similarly establish a clear parallel between martyrdom and victory: “Together, they perform no function other than to act as witnesses to three moments of glory. . .all of which also point to suffering and death. Three martyrs become witnesses to the correlation between suffering and glory.” Brian J. Incigneri, Gospel to the Romans: The Setting and Rhetoric of Mark’s Gospel (Boston: Brill, 2003), p. 348. “A great tower”; “a prison consistory.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.867. “Judges, bailiff, priests, confessors, and executioners, Such artisans one day through new changes Will metamorphose their venerable temples Into caverns of paupers, the cloisters into barns, Into trembling criminals, the consistory members, Into gallows the palace, and the Louvre into prisons.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.879–84. For every well-intentioned (I use the term lightly) expository map in early modern Europe, there were also misleading map making practices. An enriching study that offers valuable perspectives on these manipulative cartographic techniques, I refer my reader to Mark Monmonier, How to Lie with Maps (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). Kevin Lynch, The Image of the City (Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1960), p. 8. My emphasis. As Aubigné famously states in an address to his readers, “nous sommes ennuyez de livres / qui enseignent, donnez-nous en pour esmouvoir” (we are tired of books that teach; give us some that move). LT, “Aux Lecteurs,” pp. 12–13. “The shop, where Injustice deals in lives and goods.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.513–14. “This palace, had lured the eye of the great judge Through the luster, and the radiance that shined in the sky: Here is a second.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.525–27. “A grim castle, whose towers gathered together Only showed from outside the reinforced grille, All obscure, all putrid, it is the palace, the fortress Of the Inquisition, the dwelling of death.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.529–32.

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53.

54. 55.

56. 57. 58.

59.

60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

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“The Brazen Bull”; “the iron gratings.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.533; 3.539. Aubigné also references the Brazen Bull of Phalaris elsewhere, as in “Misères”: “Quelqu’un de Phalaris evitoit le Taurau.” LT, “Misères,” 1.819. For an account of early Inquisition practices and their origins in southern France, see Andrew P. Roach, “Penance and the Making of the Inquisition in Languedoc,” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 3 (2001), pp. 409–33. “Intrepid warriors.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.562. “The trumpeters at the front: an older soldier Carries in the middle the infernal standard, On which Ferdinand and his partner Isabelle are depicted, And Pope Sixtus, authors of the executioner sect.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.563–66. “Cruel artisans.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.571. “This venomous Spaniard routinely communicates such inventions to other nations.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.611–12. “Tremble judges, know that the judge of the heavens Gives to each of his own very precious blood: When you sign their death, this clause is signed, That their blood is on us and our lineage.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.591–94. “Et vous, qui le faux nom de l’Eglise prenez, Qui de faict, criminels, sobres vous abstenez, Qui en ostez les mains, et y trempez les langues, Qui tirez pour couteaux vos meurtrieres harangues, Qui jugez en secret, public solliciteurs.” (And you, who the false name of the Church takes, Who in deed, criminals, sober you abstain, Who steal their hands, and steep their tongues, Who draw as knives your murderous exhortations, Who judge in secret, public petitioners.) LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.595–99. Monmonier, How to Lie with Maps, p. 110. “Spanish venom.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.611. The term “prose cartography,” defined as a “specific type of geographical writing designed to assist its reader in forming a cartographic image,” is certainly applicable to lyric genres (Ricardo Padrón, The Spacious World: Cartography, Literature, and Empire in Early Modern Spain [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004], p. 92). “Mock tragedies”; “the poisoners of souls”; “lead all the way to the flames those who bear in their limbs the cross of Christ.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.618; 3.633–35. “Precious seeds.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.622–28; 3.639–52; 3.654. “Divine plants.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.661. “This supreme artisan Draws life from death, and from evil, good itself: He secures our tears in his more beautiful vases, Writes in his eternal language all our sufferings: From Italy, from Spain, Albion, France, and Flanders.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.665–69. “Putrid voices”; “reversed my style and my views.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.926–27. “Search for them in courtrooms, and no longer in my verse: All flee, some heading to Lower Normandy, Others to Avignon where this evil was born.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.928–30.

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71. 72.

73. 74.

75.

76. 77.

78.

79.

80. 81.

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“Part of a courtroom where judges preside.” TLFI. “Remarkable drama.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.929. Mark Venard and Olivier Chaline, “Conference Program for ‘Les Normands et la guerre: Du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle,” 15–18 October 2014, Rouen,” Fédération des Sociétés historiques et archéologiques de Normandie et la Société de l’Histoire de Normandie (2013), p. 7. Edwin Mullins, The Popes of Avignon: A Century in Exile (New York: Bluebridge Press, 2008), p. 219. “I truly fear that someone quicker and more adept In quarreling Poitou will seek out shelter, You will never see the things of which we speak Occur in Switzerland, or among the Grisons, Nations of God alone, and servants to no one else.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.933–37. Keith P. Luria, Sacred Boundaries: Religious Coexistence and Conflict in Early-Modern France (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), p. 12. I refer my reader to Keith Luria’s important work on religious harmony in seventeenthcentury France. Luria considers western Poitou, in particular, as evidence of widespread coexistence in communities that scholars formerly characterized as violence-ridden, largely based on sharp Protestant-Catholic divisions. According to Luria, separation was necessary and inevitable, but “coexistence was the common concern among Protestants and Catholics” (“Cemetaries, Religious Difference, and the Creation of Cultural Boundaries in Seventeenth-Century French Communities,” in Memory and Identity: The Huguenots in France and the Atlantic Diaspora, ed. Bertrand Van Ruymbeke and Randy J. Sparks [Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2003], p. 58). Aubigné may be referencing the uprising of Catholics in the Valle d’Adda against Protestants in 1618, which triggered nearly two decades of socio-religious conflict. See Nicole Reinhardt, “Just War, Royal Conscience and the Crisis of Theological Counsel in the Early Seventeenth Century,” Journal of Early Modern History 18, no. 5 (2015), pp. 495–521. If so, this is a later addition to “La Chambre dorée.” “Invincible English”; “brave Scottish.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.940. “There is nothing under the high firmament / enduring in its being and unchanging.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.943–44. The theme of inconstancy is common in Aubigné’s work. Contemporaries who abjure Protestantism are often the source of such reproaches, as seems to be the case in the above-cited passage. “Swiss and Grisons and English and Batavians, If injustice one day can see you as her slaves: If vile bickering administers your laws.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.945–47. “So Grison, Swiss, and Batavian and English Do not wait for fear in your souls to arrive By an awful look from a menacing comet: Take your change as a comet to misfortune.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.948–51. “Aubigné reproaches England, the Netherlands, and Switzerland for not supporting Reformers and for staying passive in the face of Catholic threats.” LT, p. 492. For David Quint, Aubigné “hymns the predestined triumphs of an international Protestantism.” See Quint, Epic and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), p. 137. “The hand that takes you from the prison to your room, That changes your small cell into a royal seat,

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84. 85.

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And your deathbed into a level so high, That makes a tribunal from a grim scaffold.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.959–62. “Your hateful people at your shores shatter their trained: The seas with the winds, the air high, moderate, and low, And the sky, partisans allied to your battle, The blasts and the fires clamor for your victory.” LT, “La Chambre dorée,” 3.980–83. Quint, Epic and Empire, p. 198. See Mark Monmonier, Mapping it Out: Expository Cartography for the Humanities and Social Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); Tom Conley, The Self-Made Map: Cartographic Writing in Early Modern France (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), p. xii.

Phillip John Usher

9 Atmoterrorism in the Humanist Anthropocene According to Admiral Samuel J. Locklear III, head of the US Pacific Command, global climate change is the greatest threat the United States faces, more dangerous than terrorism, Chinese hackers, and North Korean missiles. – Roy Scranton1

As part of his larger philosophical examination of spherical immunologies, hewn in bubbles, globes, and foam, a project fundamentally about the relationship between being (Dasein) and spaces of coexistence, Peter Sloterdijk identifies a kind of warfare that he names atmoterrorism. In such warfare, it is not the enemies’ bodies that are subjected to terror, but their atmosphere, i.e. the space(s) in which he or she exists.2 We might with Sloterdijk say that it is about assaulting his or her environment (Ger. Umgebung), although Michel Serres long ago warned us of the anthropocentrism of such a word, for it suggests that which is merely “around” (Fr. environ) the human.3 That word aside, Sloterdijk’s point is that there is a kind of warfare in which the attacker takes aim not at being (Sein) but at being-able-to-be (Seinkönnen).4 For Sloterdijk, this mode of war begins with a specific practice and on a specific date, namely when the German Western Front deployed chlorine gas as a weapon against the Franco-Canadian infantry in Ypres, Flanders, on April 22, 1915. As Sloterdijk explains, at “exactly 18:00 hours, pioneers of the new regiment. . .opened 1600 large (40 kg) and 4130 small (20 kg) canisters filled with chlorine,” a release (Abblasen) that caused “150 tonnes of chlorine” to be deployed, creating “a cloud of gas approximately 6 km wide and 600 m to 900 m deep.”5 The yellowish toxic cloud immediately caused major respiratory problems, bronchial irritation, acute ringing in the ears, blood spitting, and other health problems in anyone who happened to be in its path. This one moment marks, within Sloterdijk’s thought, not only the sudden ending of “the prebourgeois idea of personal valor and possible heroism,” but also the birth of something new – i.e., the idea of war as “military climatology” in which the goal is to make existence biologically, chemically, and ontologically “impossible” for the enemy rather than attacking his or her actual body in a focused, named, direct manner (Figure 9.1).6 There can be no doubt that the (misuse of) technical advances and the various political impasses of the twentieth century have made it the climactic era of atmoterrorism, leading up, for example, to the Sarin attacks in the Tokyo subway in 1995. In the present https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-010

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Figure 9.1: Gas Alarm!, Loos, France, World War I, ca. 1915–ca.1918. Photo credit: HIP/Art Resource, NY.

chapter, however, I should like to detach the idea of atmoterrorism from both the technical means and the historical moment with which Sloterdijk associates it, in order to explore several pre-modern formulations of warfare equally governed by what he also calls “dark meteorology,” with the ultimate goal of asking what such pre-modern formulations might be able to teach us about climate wars in the Anthropocene.7 Particular attention will be placed on French cosmographer André Thevet’s Cosmographie de Levant, Singularités de la France antarctique, and Cosmographie universelle, as well as on the epic poetry of Virgil and his early modern inheritor, Pierre de Ronsard. This generation of productive collisions between pre-modern, and especially early modern, texts and our present moment is what I refer to as the Humanist Anthropocene.8 Before turning resolutely to the pre-modern formulations of atmoterrorism announced above, as a brief exordium on the proposed detaching, it is useful to note that at three points in his discussion of Luftbeben or “airquakes,”

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Sloterdijk himself identifies – but brushes aside – pre-1915 instances of the phenomenon. Having concluded how “the twentieth century will be remembered as the period whose decisive idea consisted in targeting not the body of the enemy, but his environment,” deemed to be the “fundamental thought of terror in a more explicit and contemporary sense,” Sloterdijk quotes Shakespeare’s Shylock, said to “put [atmoterrorism’s] principle prophetically: “You take my life / When you do take the means whereby I live.”9 Sloterdijk’s point – relating the dweller to his dwelling – is marked even more strikingly in the immediately preceding lines, which have Shylock say as follows: “You take my house when you do take the prop / That doth sustain my house.”10 Sloterdijk does not analyze the quote from the Merchant of Venice – he returns rather, in the very next sentence, to “today” and to affirming that in these “new procedures” of atmoterrorism “appear the contours of a specifically modern, post-Hegelian concept of horror.”11 Shylock is bracketed off as a prophet. But prophets, surely, know that of which they speak. The second pre-modern reference in Sloterdijk (and which he also puts to one side) relates the idea of “unbreathable space” to the Greek concept of miasma: the new science of military climatology that emerged at Ypres in 1915 is said to “mak[e] explicit the phenomenon of unbreathable space, which was traditionally implicit in the concept of miasma.”12 Here it is it lack of explicitness (rather than its status as prophecy) that is pinpointed – but the two charges are rather similar. For sure, Sophocles’s use of miasma (as a stain) and Hippocrates’s (miasma suspended in the air) are not identical – but they both seem to apprehend something quite overtly atmoterrorist.13 Again, then, why exactly Sloterdijk brackets off the premodern example is quite unclear. The tragedian’s spilled blood requires ritual; the physician’s something quite different – but the concept of miasma, elaborated in both medical and moral senses at a moment so remote from the birth of germ theory that it can be hard for more modern minds to grasp already borders on the materialist.14 The third case, in another moment of theoretical condensation, concerns the “poisoning of potable water, of which antiquity already provided us with examples,” as well as “medieval infectious attacks on defensive forts [and the] burning and smoking of cities and refugee caves by besieging troops.”15 While advancing such comparisons to make his point clear, Sloterdijk also rejects their literal efficacy, noting that they “fail in the essential” because the “matter is rather to identify terrorism as a child of modernity, given that it could not mature to an exact definition until the principle of the attack on the environment and the immunological defense of an organism or form of life could be made sufficiently explicit,” which would happen “for the first time” on April 2, 1915.16 The three hesitant contacts with the past – via Shakespeare, Greek miasma, and ancient and medieval bioterrorism – are held

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at a distance via the de-realizing notions (or charges) of prophecy, implicitness, and (conjoined technical and conceptual) immaturity. What follows will, inter alia, challenge the extent to which atmoterrorism is a “child of modernity” – and, more importantly perhaps, ask how its pre-modern versions might even be more crucial for thinking about climate wars in the Anthropocene. As Sloterdijk talks of Luftbeben (from Luft, Air) as a way of phenomenalizing the kind of warfare he understands as belonging to atmoterrorism, it is fitting that we explore first the potential affiliations between such airquakes and their conceptual root, the earthquake (German Erdbeben from Erde, Earth), for the two terms certainly – or at least should – untranslate each other.17 Here is not the place to chart the long cultural and conceptual history of the earthquake – that would require volumes.18 To assess the Erdbeben/Luftbeben connection, how the Erdbeben already contains within it and expands the semantic field of the atmoterrorist association of the Luftbeben, and further to see what it can teach us about a certain kind of war and a certain way of writing about climate wars in our current period, let us train our sights on the French author André Thevet (1516–1580) who problematizes how we read such meteorological phenomena in three major works.19 His readings are, I assert, already dark-meteorological in the Sloterdikian sense, thus forcing us to re-evaluate the balance between historicizing and theoretical discourses.The first work by Thevet that we should consider is his Cosmographie de Levant (1554). Overtly about his journeys to and encounters in various countries in the East, the Cosmographie is much more than a récit de voyage. Chapters take up all sorts of diverse topics, having titles such as “On Bears,” “On Candia (i.e. Crete),” “On Constantinople,” “On Lions,” “On Rhodes,” “On the Nile and Its Crocodiles,” “On the Pyramids,” etc. It is much more, then, than a travel journal – it is, rather, a hybrid mixture of travel account, encyclopedia, amateur notebook about botany and natural history, and compendium of world cultures. The Cosmographie is pertinent here precisely because it is not a book about earthquakes, but a book that – en passant – provides us with an encounter with one. Thus, in a chapter about Crete, Thevet pauses to discuss the causes of such phenomena. His explanation, borrowed from an intermediary source, Georges de La Bouthière’s French translation of Polydore Vergil’s Jules Obsequent des Prodiges, is wholly Aristotelian: the true cause of such quakes are to be found in the fact that “certeins (sic) vents mussez dens (sic) les veines et cavernes de la terre, lesquelz taschans en toute violence de sortir causoient tel mouvement.”20 Despite this explanation focused on physical science however, Thevet – within this same chapter – draws that explanation in the direction of war and atmoterrorism, asserting that all our opinions and reasoning should be located not only within the domain of physics, but also under the “le saint vouloir et inscrutable providence de ce

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bon Dieu” suggesting further that phenomena such as earthquakes should be read, as already in Pliny, as pointing to the fact that something “quelque chose malheureuse, et dommageable” might be occurring.21 For Thevet, to talk about earthquakes thus requires two very different registers of explanation, one scientific, ultimately derived from Aristotle, and the other purely Christian, meaning that earthquakes qua signs are uncertain: they may have a cause but mean nothing, or they may be a sign of divine anger. In other words, the phenomenon might be explainable in purely physical terms, or else it might be a declaration of divine atmoterrorism. Early modern soldiers may not have lived in fear of chlorine attacks – but they and their nonmilitary contemporaries clearly did have an understanding of what it would mean to make war not on a being’s body but on one’s being-able-to-be. Thevet’s discussion of earthquakes in the Cosmographie de Levant is not a one-off. He revisits the idea in a different cultural setting in the book he wrote about his travel to the New World, the Singularités de la France antarctique (1557), in a chapter about earthquakes and hail.22 Because these “poore people” do not know of the natural causes of earthquakes as discussed in Aristotle’s Meteorologica,23 he writes, they fall into extreme fear, thinking that these environmental events are caused by their gods: “ils estiment que cela provient de leurs dieux, pour les avoir irrités et fâchés” whereas the true cause, says Thevet alluding to Aristotle, is elsewhere: “le tremblement de terre naturel ne vient sinon des vents par quelques cavités de la terre, lequel par grande agitation la fait mouvoir, comme il fait sur la terre trembler arbres et autres choses.”24 In the rest of this chapter, Thevet (or more likely his ghostwriter, Mathurin Héret) first lists other natural (non-Aristotelian) explanations (those of Thales of Miletus, Democritus, Anaximenes of Miletus, etc.), before passing from natural causes back to heavenly ones. The nonphysical causes he advances in the Christian context thus no longer apply – and yet, they are quickly recuperated: earthquakes may happen “du vouloir et permission du Supérieur, à nous toutesfois inconnues.”25 As a result, and as Frank Lestringant has summarized, the “l’explication physique du phénomène est subordonnée à l’affirmation de la toute-puissance de Dieu, lequel, quand et où Il veut, plie la Nature à sa volonté.”26 Again, then, there is an oscillation between physical and theological explanations of the phenomenon. It is this oscillation between knowing and not knowing and between physical and theological causes that expands and reshapes the idea of atmoterrorism. Thevet’s final discussion of earthquakes is in his Cosmographie universelle (1575), where they are said to occur in all parts of the world, including Scotland, England, Austria, Grenada, and Ferrara.27 As might be expected

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based on what has already been said, when Thevet talks of the ways in which non-Christians seek non-physical causes for such phenomena, he mocks them, such as when he writes of Muslims in Egypt: “peu s’en fallut que ces poltrons d’Alcoranistes ne se ruassent sur nous [autres Chrétiens], disans qu’estions cause de tel desastre.”28 In a chapter about earthquakes in central Europe, Austria, Hungary, as well as in Pannonia Superior and Pannonia Inferior (Roman provinces north of what was Dalmatia), Thevet describes a most horrific event in which the winds were so “impetueux” and the earthquake so “espouvantable” that everyone thought that the world must have been coming to an end.29 Houses were upturned. Men, animals, and birds lost their lives. Thevet illustrates the event with an engraving (Figure 9.2): below a threatening sky, cut into by a sun and (what seem to be) three comets, extends a landscape of destroyed buildings and half-buried (but still living) bodies.30 Divine wrath, here, plays the role of chlorine in Sloterdijk’s discussion of the Battle of Ypres in 1915. War, here, attacks not someone, but the space of being. Figures 9.1 and 9.2 both show individuals wholly caught up in their atmospheres and destroyed by them. An image published in 1580 shows that such divine atmoterrorism was widespread in the early modern period, and that it could be instrumentalized in different ways, indeed at even greater scales (Figure 9.3).31 In this woodcut, we see an Earth whose northern hemisphere is inhabited by topographies (hills, towns) that seem to mark this as a planet where humans dwell as indicated by the two black stickmen situated at the Equator. There is a collapsing of scales such that Ptolemy’s celebrated and important distinction, taken up by Peter Apian and countless other early modern authors, between cosmography (i.e., the whole/the planet) and topography (i.e., the part/the town) breaks down. Here, topography is the guarantor of the planet’s inhabited character. We note that the southern hemisphere is awash in dark storms. Over the northern hemisphere shine, triangulate, and terrorize what appear at first to be lunar and solar bodies, each prolonged by rays that seemingly reach down over the Earth. Similar in many ways to the images in sixteenth-century editions of Sacrobosco and other related works, this one attempts what Sloterdijk has called elsewhere a “geometrization of the immeasurable” to represent divine atmoterrorism, proving indeed that geometry might be the “beginning of terror.”32 That to which the woodcut lends a geometrization and a cosmography is a treaty in the form of a poem about the historically situated moment of a Catholic God’s revenge on the Protestants of England and especially Dieppe, one of France’s Calvinist strongholds along with, inter alia, La Rochelle. God’s call to the members of the new religion is figured in the poem as an attack not on miscreant

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Figure 9.2: André Thevet, Cosmographie universelle (Pierre l’Huillier: Paris, 1575), p. 900. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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bodies but on their space of existence, figured here as a space in which signs must be interpreted, signs which include famine, the rising price of grain (to the point that it exists no where), as well as earthquakes.33 What Thevet figured via earthquakes and God, an anonymous (obviously Catholic) author figures in a different way. The 1580 treaty, published during the French Wars of Religion, just eight years after the bloody Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, was one of many works published at the time, offering partisan commentary about the wars with the goal of emphasizing party lines and further developing religious identities via polemic.34 Despite this connection to contemporary events and the clearly drawn religious lines, we are in the domain of atmoterrorism. Les Grands signes, however, does not comment directly on the image. Rather, it talks around it, precisely to engage in atmoterroristic semiotics. At stake is God’s anger (courroux), which manifests itself in signs (signes) and in war (guerre) that is wrought on one side by God and on the other by Protestants, “faux prophetes meschans” who spread their plague in Strasbourg, Geneva, and elsewhere.35 God’s response – to wage war on the human Earth in such a way as to make life unlivable – causes mass conversion back to Catholicism in Dieppe, thus forcing these heretical humans from a life unlivable into that “résidence” that is in the service of the Almighty.36 The situation of the heretic is not just religious but ontological, spatial, wholly controlled by atmoterrorism of God. For a Paganized version of Thevet’s atmoterrorist formulation of the earthor air-quake, the obvious place to turn is epic, for epic is a genre in which human agents are frequently at war not only with other human agents but with nonhuman (atmospheric) ones such as strong winds, tempestuous seas, and such like. While the obvious explanation is of course that Pagan gods are in control of everything and that the genre always pits human against divine agents, I should like here to keep attention not on that generically situated explanation but – again to mention Michel Serres – on “the world of things themselves.”37 In his discussion of Goya’s famous painting, known as Riña a garrotazos or Duelo a garrotazos, and in English as Fight with cudgels, Serres underscores that the average viewer – i.e. his straw-man viewer whose sensibilities are not ecological – will see the two men fighting but fail to ask where there battle takes place, causing Serres to ask: “can we identify a third position, outside their squabble: the marsh into which the struggle is sinking?”38 Such is a useful question to ask, too, of epic, in order to appreciate its atmoterrorist potential. Many epic moments suggest themselves for analysis, but let us focus on just one: the point in the first book of Virgil’s Aeneid where Juno asks Aelous to release winds to punish Aeneas. She makes her plea as follows:

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Aeolus – for to you the father of the gods and king of men has given power to calm and uplift the waves with the wind (“mulcere dedit fluctus et tollere vento”) – a people hateful to me sails the Tyrrhene sea, carrying into Italy Ilium’s vanquished gods. Hurl fury into your winds (“incute vim ventis”) and overwhelm the ships, or drive the men asunder and scatter their bodies on the deep. Twice seven nymphs have I of wondrous beauty, of whom Deiopea, fairest of form, I will link to you in sure wedlock, making her yours forever, that for such service of yours she may spend all her years with you, and make you father of fair offspring.39

Juno, then, proposes a deal: if Aeolus agrees to become an atmoterrorist, she will procure him sexual pleasure and certain paternity. That the proposal is for the kind of war that interests me here we see in the fact that mention of men and bodies occurs only after the initial invocation to install fury in the winds and to overwhelm ships. Bodies may end up scattered “on the deep,” but it is their means of existence (a ship on a calm sea) that is to be attacked. Aeolus’s power is specifically said to be that of controlling atmosphere – he can make the seas calmer (“mulcere”) or tempestuous (“tollere”). Countless woodcuts and illustrations in various media capture in pictorial form this moment in the Aeneid. As we would expect, in such illustrations we often see what cartographers called wind heads, i.e. chubby-faced putti who “uplift the waves” and, frequently, provide cardinal points by identifying the four points of the compass. One seventeenth-century woodcut (Figure 9.4) keeps these wind heads but pushes them into the center of the image, having them “uplift the waves” from within the clouds. The result is a swirling baroque materialization of epic atmoterrorist war: Aeneas and his companions are on a ship, half-swallowed by the waves and under direct attack from the winds and clouds.40 This particular woodcut is particularly pertinent for reading Virgil in that the Aeneid itself equally removes direction from the winds. We read that the winds “swoop down upon the sea and from its lowest depths upheave it all – East and South winds together, and the Southwester, thick with tempests – and shoreward roll vast billows.”41 The woodcut clearly shows how different winds function together – this non-directedness, this deployment of the atmosphere in its disconnection from the seemingly physical map of geography brings home what is at stake: making being impossible. Comparing the images of chlorine gas deployed at Ypres (Figure 9.1) with Thevet’s illustration of impetuous winds in Central Europe, we see that such warfare is epic – not in the one-on-one combats of the type in which Achilles gets involved, but in the atmoterrorist manner. The extent to which the atmosphere functions, already in epic literature, as a terror-delivery medium becomes clear in an early modern adaptation of the storm described in Aeneid 1. In his unfinished Franciad (in French La

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Franciade), whose first four books appeared in 1572, the poet Pierre de Ronsard rewrites the episode that we just examined. We need not fully introduce that text here – in a nutshell, Aeneas is transformed into a specifically French character called Francus, the supposed ancestor of the French, who is to travel from his temporary home in Buthrotum to France in order to found the kingdom of France. Like Aeneas going to Italy, Francus’s survival from Troy – he is the son of Hector – to France becomes a national epic narrative.42 In any case, things play out a little differently: this time Jupiter entreats Iris to take a message to Juno in which he suggests that if she wishes to take this opportunity for revenge against the Trojans, she should brew up a storm, “brassant contre eux un amas pluvieux.”43 What happens next is akin to contemporary efforts at geo-engineering. We read as follows: Incontinent un grand nombre de nües Sont pesle-mesle à son trone venües, Comme troupeaux qui viennent à l’entour De leur pasteur, quand la pointe du jour, Et la rosée aux herbes les convie: D’une grand troupe une troupe est suivie, Pié contre pié: & Junon qui les prent Leur forme un corps moien, petit & grand, Comme il luy plait: les unes sont cornuës, Les autres sont grosses ou menuës.44

Juno, in other words, becomes a weapons manufacturer – and she, literally, turns the atmosphere (its clouds) into tools of war. Ronsard, who admits elsewhere that one verse of Latin gives six verses of French, expands at some length on this moment of fabrication via an extended simile that is worth our time: Ainsi qu’on voit le bon haquebutier (Qui sur l’hiver prepare son metier) Verser du plomb en son moule, pour faire De la dragée: il la forme au contraire, D’un corps divers, comme le plomb se fond: L’une est quarrée, & l’autre a le corps rond L’autre l’a long: ainsi Junon la grande En cens façons forma l’humide bande Filles de l’air: en l’une elle soufloit Neges & gresle, & de l’autre elle enfloit Tout l’estomac d’orages & de pluye, De foudres pers, de scintile, & de suye, L’une en bruiant sur l’autre se rouloit, L’autre blafarde & noiratre couloit

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Aiant d’azur la robe entre-semée, Et l’autre estoit de feu toute allumée.45

Ronsard’s extended simile explicates what is implicit in Virgil, namely that weather functions, in epic, as a weapon that can be used in geography but that is not beholden to geography because the climate of which it is a manifestation is wholly under the sway of supernatural beings – in this case, Juno. Winds are ripped from any land-based, geographical rationalism (i.e. mountains trap cool air, which can lead to precipitation) and fashioned as tools of divine anger. In Ronsard, clouds are bullets. An early modern reader of the Franciad reading these lines in which Juno’s preparation of cloud-bullets is compared to the production bullets for the harquebus would surely see exactly what kind of hijacking of military weaponry is at play. To get a sense of what a contemporary reader might have had in mind while reading of Ronsard’s cloud bullets, we might turn to Jean-Jacques de Wallhausen’s Art militaire pour l’infanterie (1615). Wallhausen’s book places emphasis, from the title page onwards, squarely on one-on-one combat and on soldiers who take aim at other soldiers with canons, muskets, axes, spears, and the like. The table of contents, included on that same title page, announces such topics as “Le maniement du Mousquet et de la Pique.”46 Thus, Chapter 2 will teach “quel doit estre le mousquet,” “quelle est la meilleure sorte de mousquets,” as well as “ce que c’est qu’un chascun mousquestaire doit observer & remarquer.”47 Chapter 3 will continue the lesson by teaching “comment il faut bien-seamment prendre le Mousquet, charger, & mettre sur l’espaule,” while Chapter 4 will examine “comment il faut habilement & bien-seamment descharger le Mousquet.”48 At the start of the seventeenth century, then, military art is a hands-on reality, as we can see even more clearly by reading the detailed account of how a soldier is to pick up his musket (from Chapter 3): En premier lieu, si vostre mousquet est à terre, pour le lever avec bo[nn]e grace, prenés la fourchette avec le cord[on] en la main gauche, & la mesche bruslante à deux bouts en la main droite, que si la mesche est trop longue, prenés la par le milieu, en sorte que les deux bouts pendent egallement, & mettés le doigt gauche, qui est aupres du petit, au milieu de la mesche, & l’un des bouts bruslant (sic), entre le petit doigt & son plus proche, & l’autre bout, entre cestui & celui du milieu, lesquels trois doigts doivent gouverner & garder la mesche.49

After many other details, the musketeer is now holding his musket, and the author continues: Notés aussi que quand vous aurés le mousquet sur l’espaule avec la fourchette, comme il a esté monstré, & que vous marcherés, vous preniés aussi avec bonne grace la fourchette

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en la main droite, le mousquet sur l’espaule gauche, & qu’à chasque fois que mettrés le pied droit devant, vous posiés la fourchette à terre.50

As military historians will know, the musket is the arm that succeeded the harquebus and which in turn would come to be succeeded by the rifle, but at the time of the publication of the Art militaire the musket and the harquebus coexisted such that Wallhausen dedicates Chapter 8 (“On the Harquebus”) to precisely this overlap. Therein, Wallhausen explains as follows: “ainsi que j’ay monstré qu’il faut faire avec le mousquet, vous ferés aussi le mesme en tout de la simple harquebouse,” except as regards “la fourchette & bandouliere,” which will be of no use.51 Recognizing that muskets will soon replace harquebuses, Wallhausen nonetheless suggests that younger boys should be encouraged to carry the musket rest as well as their harquebus, deemed “un exercice leger” that will train said younger boys “pour puis apres porter le mousquet.”52 This brief glimpse of Wallhausen’s Military Art for Infantry thus brings out two points. Firstly, that Ronsard’s great attention to detail in his description of Juno’s fabrication process is that not just of a Pléiade poet but also that of a writer of military treaties. And secondly that, whereas Wallhausen’s work emphasizes one-on-one combat, Ronsard images a kind of warfare that is of another time – i.e., that of epic time and that of the Anthropocene: “In just this way, Juno the Great / Fashions her watery troop in a hundred shapes, / Daughters of the air.” The kind of warfare that we are currently experiencing in our times of global warming and catastrophic ecological degradation is thus, perhaps, not so new. It might be time to turn to epic literature to start thinking through our own subject position and political agency in that war.

Conclusion If it has been worth examining here several pre-modern formulations of Sloterdijk’s notion of atmoterrorism, in which the atmosphere, climate, or – if we must – “environment” are instrumentalized as weapons, it is not to apply his notion to earlier texts and images, nor is it only to advance that Sloterdijk’s own allusions to prophets and predecessors should be taken more literally. The present florilegium hopes rather to be theoretically productive for imagining our new epoch, the Anthropocene. We who live in the age of global warming and its new new math do so in an atmoterrorist mode – that much is sure. Climate and weather are now increasingly interlinked, and the dramatic increase in extreme weather events is affecting more and more people.53 Just think of how the temperature in Basra, Iraq, reached 129 degrees Fahrenheit this year,

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“approaching the point where humans can’t survive outdoors.”54 That is atmoterrorism. Roy Scranton, an Iraq war veteran, has argued that when Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans he saw “the same chaos and the collapse” as he had observed in Bagdad; and further, for example, that the “potential for planetary devastation posed by the methane hydrate reservoir” is fundamentally comparable to “the destructive potential from nuclear winter or from a comet or asteroid impact.”55 Global warming is a war and it is atmoterrorist. But, the point where the reality of the Anthropocene departs from Sloterdijk’s model of atmoterrorism concerns agency and can be stated as follows: at the Battle of Ypres in 1915, there were – even if the atmosphere served as a weapon that announced a swerve away from one-on-one combat – clearly defined battle lines and enemy camps. The soldiers caught in the chlorine clouds knew, as do the historians who write of that battle, who (i.e., which army) was responsible for their deployment. The same would be true were a country to declare nuclear war. Conversely, someone attacked by Hurricane Katrina, or someone experiencing near-unbearable temperatures in Basra in 2016 would find it much harder to pinpoint who made it so hot. One might say: we did, or cars did, or the Industrial Revolution did, or Capitalism did, etc. And the only fully undeniable response might be carbon did – but that response, in turn, still leaves open the questions of agency and of political responsibility of those who mine coal, manage carbon emissions, build cars, etc. So even that undeniable answer ends up in a state of deferral. But it is the ambiguousness of the enemy agency that makes the atmoterrorism of the Anthropocene theoretically closer to the pre-modern formulations analyzed here where the atmospheric chemist is an invisible Christian or Pagan god, who cannot be seen and whose actions cannot be predicted.

Endnotes 1. 2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

Roy Scranton, Learning to Die in the Anthropocene (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2015), p. 14. All translations are my own, unless otherwise stated. See Peter Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” Environment and Planning 27 (2009), pp. 41–57. Sloterdijk’s reflection is excerpted from the second volume of his Spheres trilogy, titled Globes, trans. Wieland Hoban (South Pasadena, CA: Semiotext[e], 2014). Michel Serres, The Natural Contract, trans. Elizabeth MacArthur and William Paulson (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), p. 33: “[The word environment] assumes that we humans are at the center of a system of nature.” Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 55. Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 42. Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 44 and p. 45.

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7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

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Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 47. Literature on the Anthropocene is abundant. For starting points, see inter alia Paul Crutzen and Eugene Stoermer, “The ‘Anthropocene’,” International Geosphere-Biosphere Programme Newsletter 41 (2000); Will Steffen, Jacques Grinevald, Paul Crutzen, and John McNeill, “The Anthropocene: Conceptual and Historical Perspectives,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society 369 (2011), pp. 842–67; and Dipesh Chakrabarty, “Postcolonial Studies and the Challenge of Climate Change,” New Literary History 43 (2012), pp. 1–18. The Humanist Anthropocene refers to the idea of putting the homo of humanism in dialogue with the anthropos of the Anthropocene, in order to examine the ways in which pre-modern texts and images can put pressure on the thinkers and theories of our present era. I develop and defend this idea elsewhere in more detail. See Phillip John Usher, “Untranslating the Anthropocene,” Diacritics 44, no. 3 (2016), pp. 56–77, and the introduction to Usher, “On the Exterranean: Towards an Ecology of Extraction in the Humanist Anthropocene,” unpublished manuscript, 2017. Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 43. Sloterdijk is quoting Merchant of Venice 4.1. My emphasis. Tara Smith reads this passage quite differently, as a defense of property rights (Smith, Moral Freedom and Rights (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 1995), pp. 193–94). Aaron Kitch notes, for his part, that by “insisting on property rights rather than rights to engage in commercial activity, Shylock goes a step beyond the Jewish condotte [and] with his pun on ‘prop’ and ‘property,’ Shylock anticipates the equation of property ownership, the marketplace, and political franchise that the Putney debates of the 1640s elevated to the center of English political economy.” Kitch, Political Economy and the States of Literature in Early Modern England (Burlington: Ashgate, 2009), p. 125. Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 43. Sloterdijk quotes Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, which notes that in terror is realized “the discrete, absolute hard rigidity and self-willed atomism of actual self-conciousness” (p. 43, n. 3). Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 45. Jacques Jouanna, “The Birth of Western Medical Art,” in Western Medical Thought from Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Mirko D. Grmek (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), p. 65. See Robert C. Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 49. Sloterdijk, “Airquakes,” p. 49. I use the term to untranslate here in the sense given to it by Barbara Cassin in her Dictionnaire des intraduisibles and unpacked by Emily Apter in her Against World Literature. “What is needed,” writes Emily Apter in the introduction to the Englishlanguage edition of Cassin’s work, “is not a firmer or clearer translation of difficult words, but a feeling for how relatively simple words chase each other around in context” (x). In the current context, I thus mean how airquake and earthquake overlap and partially determine the meaning of the other term. Cassin (ed.), The Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon, trans. Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004); Apter, Against World Literature (London: Verso, 2013). As a starting point, see Jelle Zeilinga de Boer and Donald Theodore Sanders, Earthquakes in Human History: The Far-Reaching Effects of Seismic Disruptions (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005).

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20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26.

27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

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The comments that follow owe much to Frank Lestringant, “Tremblements chez Thevet,” in Sous la leçon des vents: Le monde d’André Thevet, cosmographe de la Renaissance, ed. Frank Lestringant (Paris: Presses de l’université Paris-Sorbonne, 2003). “Certain winds concealed within the Earth’s veins and caves, which violently struggling to escape, cause such mouvements [i.e., earthquakes].” André Thevet, Cosmographie de Levant, ed. Frank Lestringant (Geneva: Droz, 1985), pp. 40–41. On the Jules Obsequent des Prodiges text, see Jean Céard, La Nature et les prodiges (Geneva: Droz, 1977), pp. 161–70. “Sacred will and inscrutable providence of this good [Christian] God”; “unhappy and dangerous.” Thevet, Cosmographie de Levant, p. 41. Most likely, Thevet’s chapter draws on Olaus Magnus’s Historia de gentibus septentrionablibus (1555), of which a French translation would only become available in 1561 under the title Histoire des pays septentrionaux. Aristotle, Meteorologica, trans. H. D. P. Lee (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), 2.7–9. “They think that these things proceed from their Gods, for that they have offended them”; “earthquakes commeth not but of windes that are shut in in certain crasses of the earth, the which by greate power causeth it to shake, as in lyke manner it causeth many times great trees to shake.” André Thevet, Les Singularités de la France antarctique, ed. Frank Lestringant (Paris: Chandeigne, 1997), p. 392; Thevet, The new found vvorlde, or Antarctike, trans. Thomas Hacket (London: Henrie Bynneman, 1568), fol. 131v. “Only by the permission of the most highest unknown to us.” Thevet, Les Singularités, p. 394; Thevet, The new found vvorlde, fol. 132v. “The phenomenon’s physical explanation is subordinated to the affirmation of God’s omnipotence, which can bend Nature as He wills.” Lestringant, “Tremblements chez Thevet,” p. 217. Lestringant, “Tremblements chez Thevet,” p. 220. “These cowardly Alcoranists very nearly hurled themselves upon us [Christians], claiming that we were the cause of such a disaster.” André Thevet, La Cosmographie universelle (Paris: Pierre L’Huillier et Guillaume Chaudière, 1575), pp. I, II, 1, fol. 32v. “Impetuous,” “atrocious.” Thevet, La Cosmographie universelle, pp. I, II, 1, fol. 900r. See also Lestringant’s description of this same engraving in his “Tremblements chez Thevet,” p. 220. Anonymous, Les Grands signes merveilleux, fol. Aiiiv. As far as I can tell, this publication has attracted hardly any critical comment at all. One exception is a brief mention in M. T. Jones-Davies (ed.), Rumeurs et nouvelles au temps de la Renaissance (Paris: Klincksieck, 1997), p. 85. Sloterdijk, Globes, p. 45 and p. 50. See Les Grands signes merveilleux veuz et apparuz sur la mer occeane, & autres regions de la France, Angleterre & Escosse. Et de leurs significations en ceste annee. Et de la reduction de ceux de la nouvelle religion de la ville de Diepe, par la frayeur des tremblements de terre. Et de la rebellion d’aucuns subjectz du Roy (Paris: Michel Buffet, 1580), fol. Aiiiv and fol. Aivv. On Les Grands signes merveilleux as part of early modern news media, see Jean-Pierre Seguin, “L’information en France avant le périodique: 500 canards imprimés entre 1529 et 1631,” Arts et traditions populaires, 11e année, no. 3/4 (July-December 1963): 203–80.

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35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41.

42.

43.

44.

45.

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The way in which such publications fashioned, via polemic, religious communities is the topic of Antónia Szabari’s recent work, Less Rightly Said: Scandals and Readers in Sixteenth-Century France (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010). “Evil false prophets.” Les Grands signes merveilleux, fol. Aivv. “Residence”; Les Grands signes merveilleux, fol. Aiiir. Serres, The Natural Contract, p. 2. Serres, The Natural Contract, p. 1. “Aeole, namque tibi divom pater atque hominum rex Et mulcere dedit fluctus et tollere vento, Gens inimica mihi Tyrrhenum navigat aequor, Ilium in Italiam portans victosque Penates: Incute vim ventis submersasque obrue puppes, Aut age diversos et disiice corpora ponto. Sunt mihi bis septem praestanti corpore nymphae, Quarum quae forma pulcherrima Deiopea, Conubio iungam stabili propriamque dicabo, Omnis ut tecum meritis pro talibus annos Exigat, et pulchra faciat te prole parentem.” Virgil, Aeneid, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 1.65–75. L’Eneide de Virgile traduite en vers françois (Paris: P. Moreau, 1648), p. 4. “Incubuere mari, totumque a sedibus imis Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt creberque procellis Africus, et vastos volvunt ad litora fluctus.” Virgil, Aeneid, 1.84–86. Ronsard’s epic has been the object of much critical attention of late, and its character as a “failed epic” (which had been somewhat taken for granted since the time of SainteBeuve) is not largely debunked. See especially Denis Bjaï, La Franciade sur le métier: Ronsard et la pratique du poème héroïque (Geneva: Droz, 2001); Katherine Maynard, “Epic Lessons: Pedagogy and National Narrative in the Epic Poetry of Early Modern France” (PhD diss., University of Washington, 2003), pp. 14–73; and Phillip John Usher, Epic Arts in Renaissance France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), chapter 3. “Brew up a watery storm against them.” Ronsard, Franciade, 2.119. French quotations of the poem come from Paul Laumonier’s edition, vol. 16 in Pierre de Ronsard, Œuvres complètes (Paris: Librairie Nizet, 1983). English translations come from Phillip John Usher’s The Franciad (1572) (New York: AMS Press, 2010). “Clouds at once crowded Pell-mell around her throne, Like flocks that gather by Their shepherd at daybreak, Summoned by the morning dew. Each great troop is followed by another, Each on the heels of the next. Juno takes them, Shapes them – small, medium, or large, As she sees fit. To some, she gives horns, Others she makes either fat or thin.” Ronsard, Franciade, 2.125–134. “In winter, one sees the good Harquebusier prepare his weapons. He pours lead into small molds

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47.

48.

49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

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To make bullets. He fashions The molten lead into various shapes: One is square, the other is round, A third is long. In just this way, Juno the Great Fashions her watery troop in a hundred shapes, Daughters of the air. Into one, she blew Snow and hail; she swelled Another’s stomach with storm and rain, Full of sky-colored thunder, of spark and soot. One rumbles as it buffets its neighbor, Another slides, pallid and black, Its robe dappled with azure, a third Is all aglow around an inner flame.” Ronsard, Franciade, 2.135–50. “How to Use a Musket and the Pike.” Johann Jacobi von Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie: Pratique & descrit en language Allemand par Jean Jaques de Walhausen [. . .] et traduit nouvellement en François (Oppenheim: Hierome Galler, 1615), title page. “What a musket should be”; “which is the best kind of muskets”; “what each musketeer must observe and notice.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, non-numbered page within the opening “Sommaire et contenu de ce premier livre.” “How one must take up the musket with decorum, load it, and put it on one’s shoulder”; “the musketeer, skillfully and with decorum, should unload the musket.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, pp. 37, 39. “In the first place, if your musket is on the ground, to pick it up gracefully, take hold of the musket rest with the string in your left hand, and the fuse burning on both ends with the right hand. If the fuse is too long, grab it in the middle, so that the two ends are both hanging equally down, and put your finger next to the little finger on your left hand, in the middle of the fuse, and one of the burning ends between the little fingers and the nearest next finger, and the other end, between that finger and the middle one – those three fingers must govern and keep hold of the fuse.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, p. 37. “Note that when you have placed the musket on your shoulder along with the musket rest in the manner that has been shown here, and as you start to walk, you will thus advance gracefully carrying also the musket rest in your right hand, and the musket on your left shoulder, and each time you put your foot forward, you will place momentarily the musket rest on the ground.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, p. 38. “As I have shown one must do with the musket, you will do the same in every manner with the simple harquebus”; “musket rest and the carrying strap.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, p. 46. “Light exercise”; “for later carrying the musket.” Wallhausen, L’art militaire pour l’infanterie, p. 46. The new new math shows that, as of September 2016, the amount of carbon that we can still release safely into the atmosphere without catastrophic and chaotic consequences for all humanities is smaller that thought only four years ago in 2012. On this topic, see Bill McKibben, “Recalculating the Climate Math. The numbers on global warming are even scarier than we thought,” New Republic, September 22, 2016. On the increasing ability of scientists to link extreme weather events directly to climate, see Graham

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54. 55.

171

Readfearn, “Was that Climate Change? Scientists are Getting Faster at Linking Extreme Weather to Warming,” The Guardian, September 14, 2016. McKibben, “Recalculating the Climate Math.” Scranton, Learning to Die in the Anthropocene, pp. 14, 16.

Katherine S. Maynard

10 Exporting Peace and Arming Vengeance in Lescarbot’s Histoire de la NouvelleFrance (1609) and La Défaite des Sauvages Armouchiquois (1607) This volume explores how polemical literature and literary polemic played a role in the Wars of Religion by “alter(ing) social realities,” perpetuating conflict, and deepening divides.1 This final chapter approaches this role from a post-war perspective by considering written attempts to move beyond the economic and communal devastation of the wars. If words were used to amplify religious difference or to represent the pain and destruction of the wars, they also played a role in restoring a sense of French identity and community. To consider one such example, this chapter takes as its focus the post-war writings of the French lawyer Marc Lescarbot (1570?–1641). Lescarbot’s early seventeenth-century attempts to promote and export a revamped version of French identity represent a coda to the wars of words of the preceding century. Lescarbot’s writings of the post-war era seek to reframe the notions of shared French identity during the context of peace-building that began after the official end of the Wars of Religion in 1598. That year, the Treaty of Vervins, the Edict of Nantes, and the death of Emperor Philip II allowed the French king Henri IV to turn his attention westward.2 The Treaty of Vervins, which Lescarbot had praised in an earlier work, was built upon the 1559 Peace of Cateau-Cambrésis and marked the end of conflicts between the French and Spanish kings by reestablishing the jurisdictions that had been transgressed during the wars.3 It recalibrated power between France and Spain both in Europe and in the New World, which invited the French to recommit to their colonial holdings.4 In contrast, the Edict of Nantes focused on resolving the internal conflicts between Catholics and Protestants in France. The Edict had a different lineage from that of the Treaty of Vervins: it belonged to a series of attempts to legislate remembering and forgetting during the Wars of Religion.5 It asked the king’s subjects to forget the Wars in order to move beyond them, with a decree that legislated memory: “que la memoire de toutes choses passées d’une part et d’autre. . .demourera estaincte et assoupie, comme de chose non advenue.”6 These two treaties set the stage for Henri IV’s colonial enterprise, and, subsequently, Lescarbot’s colonial writings. From Lescarbot’s perspective, France’s presence in the New World is contingent on this recent internal https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-011

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peacemaking. In the Histoire de la Nouvelle-France (1609), he remarks that religious conflicts have held the French back, noting that “les differens pour la Religion et les troubles estans survenus, noz François parmy ces longues alarmes ont esté tellement occupés, qu’en une division universelle il a esté bien difficile de viser au dehors.”7 In a later passage, the author affirms that with this kind of unrest behind them, the French are ready to stake their claim as colonizers. Responding to critics of the French colonial project, Lescarbot reminds his readers that Nous ne sommes plus au temps des ligues & partialitez. Nul ne s’attaquera à nôtre Roy, & ne fera des entreprises hazardeuses pour un petit butin. Et quand quelqu’un le voudroit faire, je croy qu’on a desja pensé aux remedes. Et puis, ce fait est de Religion, & non pour ravir le bien d’autrui. Cela estant, la Foy fait marcher en cette entreprise la tête levée, & passer par dessus toutes difficultés.8

Furthermore, with French intervention, New France could become the ideal locale for a new golden age of peace9: Mais en la Nouvelle France il faut ramener le siècle d’or, il faut renouveller les antiques Corones d’epics du blé, & faire que la premiere gloire soit celle que les anciens Romains appeloient, Gloria adorea, gloire de froment, afin d’inviter chacun à bien cultiver son champ.10

Yet, Lescarbot’s own works trouble his vision of a New World golden age, revealing that this vision remains influenced by the aftermath of the French Wars of Religion even as it seems to leave them behind. If, as Eric Thierry has suggested, Lescarbot is “un intellectual français hanté par les guerres civiles, obsédé par le retour de la paix,” his fantasy of a French colonial golden age faces two obstacles that stand in the way of this peace.11 First, there is the major flaw that he perceives in the indigenous peoples he encounters: an obsession with vengeance. Second, a shadow is cast by the trade of French firearms which amplifies the effects of this vengeance. This chapter will consider these obstacles through readings of the Histoire de la Nouvelle-France (1609) and Lescarbot’s heroic poem, La défaite des Sauvages Armouchiquois par le Sagamos Membertou et ses alliez Sauvages (1607). As will become clear, Lescarbot imagines the French as the ideal people to lead Amerindians away from vengeance in the Histoire, in large part due to their own ability to forget past offenses, an ability proven by the end of the Wars of Religion. However, the reality of the French presence in the New World is decidedly less benevolent in the Défaite, where the sale and usage of French arms only serve to perpetuate and escalate the war of vengeance that Lescarbot believes the French can

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resolve. The poem demonstrates how, within the spaces of Lescarbot’s blind spots, his golden age – under the supposedly “civilizing” influence of the French – deteriorates into an iron age.

“Jamais ils n’oublient les injures”: The Problem of Amerindian Vengeance The Histoire de la Nouvelle-France describes the lands and peoples that Lescarbot encountered on his brief trip to the New World.12 As a way to distinguish his own project to colonize North America from the previous failed attempts to colonize the southern hemisphere, Lescarbot most often lauds the Amerindians of North America and compares them favorably to those of South America, groups already known to his readership through the works of Jean de Léry and André Thevet.13 However, while he extols the virtues of the indigenous inhabitants of North America, Lescarbot observes one regrettable character flaw: “Un point rend en eux cette Vertu de Force & courage, imparfaite; qu’ilz sont trop vindicatifs, & en cela mettent leur souverain contentement, ce qui degenere à la brutalité.”14 Lescarbot notes disapprovingly that the peoples he meets engage in combat only to vindicate past ills: Noz Sauvages n’ont point leurs guerres fondées sur la possession de la terre. Nous ne voyons point qu’ils entreprennent les uns sur les autres pour ce regard. Ils ont de la terre assez pour vivre & pour se promener. Leur ambition se borne dans leurs limites. Ilz font la guerre à la manière d’Alexandre le Grand, pour dire, je vous ay battu: ou par vindicte en ressouvenance de quelque injure receue qui est le plus grand vice que je trouve en eux par ce que jamais ilz n’oublient les injures: en quoy ilz sont d’autant plus excusables, qu’ilz ne font rien que nous ne facions bien. Ilz suivent la Nature: & si nous remettons quelque chose de cet instinct, c’est le commandement de Dieu qui nous fait faire cela auquel plusieurs ferment les yeux.15

This description of vindictive North Americans seems to be largely inspired by descriptions of the South American Tupinambas by Jean de Léry, an author with whom Lescarbot had a relationship described by Marie-Christine Pioffet as “quasi obsédante.”16 In contrasting war for the possession of land (which the peoples of the New World do not seem to value) with war for vengeance, Lescarbot closely follows a passage that first appeared in 1578 in Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Brésil, where the Protestant author also notes that the Tupinambas never fight for land, but only for vengeance: Non pas, quant à ces Barbares, qu’ils se fassent la guerre pour conquérir les pays et terres les uns des autres, car chacun en a plus qu’il ne lui en faut, moins que les vainqueurs

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prétendent de s’enrichir des dépouilles, rançons et armes des vaincus; ce n’est pas, disje, tout cela qui les mène. Car, comme eux-mêmes confessent, n’étant poussés d’autre affection que de venger chacun de son côté ses parents et amis, lesquels par le passé ont été pris et mangés.17

For Léry, Tupinamba vengeance results in acts of cannibalism that quickly take center stage in a comparison between Europeans and the object of his study.18 Léry creates what Frank Lestringant has called a diptych, “le tableau de cette cuisine rituelle et celui des horreurs commises en France, où il est arrivé qu’une vengeance perverse conduise au crime de cannibalisme.”19 However appalled his readers might be about Amerindian cannibalism, their own appetite for cruelty surpasses that of the Tupinamba.20 To prove this point, Léry offers the example of the economic cannibalism of usurers, who commit a cruelty equal to the cannibalism of the Tumpinama.21 Then, he moves to examples of those who chew and eat people “réellement” (literally), citing two specific examples from the Wars of Religion.22 He begins by describing how Protestant bodies were destroyed and sold in the course of the events of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572: “la graisse des corps humains (qui, d’une façon plus barbare et cruelle que celle des sauvages, furent massacrés dans Lyon, après être retirés de la rivière de Saône) ne fut-elle pas publiquement vendue au plus offrant et dernier enrichisseur?”23 Next, he describes an incident that took place in 1569 where un nommé Cœur de Roi, faisant profession de la Religion réformée dans la ville d’Auxerre, fut misérablement massacré, ceux qui commirent ce meurtre ne découpèrentils pas son cœur en pièces, l’exposèrent en vente à ses haineux, et finalement, l’ayant fait griller sur les charbons, assouvissant leur rage comme chiens mâtins, en mangèrent?24

In both of these descriptions of European cannibalism, Léry frames cannibalism as part of a larger economy of cruelty. Body fat is sold in public to the highest bidder; Coeur de Roy’s heart is hacked to pieces and auctioned off (“exposer en vente”) before it is roasted and eaten by his enemies. When considered alongside the previous example of the cannibalistic usurer, the focal point of these anecdotes relates as much or more to Europeans treating each other as commodities as it does to Europeans literally eating each other. The commercialization of cruelty serves as a way to make the European approach to cannibalism more reprehensible than that of their South American counterparts. It emphasizes the extent of the corruption rampant in Léry’s own society, an erosion further confirmed through a linkage to Christian royal power: the aptly named Coeur de Roy finds his very heart – the heart of “king’s heart” – sold for auction.25 As Frank Lestringant has observed, Léry is unsparing in his assessment of his own culture: “Comme chez Montaigne, le détour par autrui permet

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de mieux se connaître soi-même. Mais le regard final, ce regard qui revient est sans complaisance aucune et sans tendresse particulière.”26 David Quint has explored a similar critique of European vengeance and the refusal to pardon in Montaigne’s essay “Des cannibales” where the evocation of cannibal cruelty is used to underline similarities between the Tupinamba and Europeans.27 For both Léry and Montaigne, there is little hope of Europeans playing a corrective role in the vengeful and cannibalistic behavior of the people whom they plan to colonize and evangelize. In his own work on the New World, Lescarbot remains a devotee of Léry in that he follows his predecessor by associating indigenous cruelty with European cruelty.28 However, he takes a decidedly more positive view of Europeans as he explores the implications of Amerindian vengeance. Most obviously, vengeance is not used to explain cannibalism, since the peoples he describes do not practice cannibalism: Au moins se reconoit une chose louable en eux, qu’ilz ne sont point anthropophages comme ont esté autrefois les Scythes, & maintes autres nations du monde de deça: & comme encore aujourd’hui sont les Bresiliens, Canibales, & autres du monde nouveau.29

What’s more, his critique of his own society remains only superficially connected to Léry’s critique. Instead of detailed diptych of cruelties, Lescarbot offers a tepid excuse for such behavior, noting that the Amerindians “ne font rien que nous ne facions bien.”30 Significantly, even as Lescarbot acknowledges that Europeans are susceptible to nevertheless cruelty, he grants the French a moral high ground that places them in a position to serve as exemplars to the Amerindians. In an introductory piece to the Histoire de la Nouvelle-France, Lescarbot encourages his compatriots to participate in the colonization of these lands by appealing to France’s greatness: it is time, he says, for France to spread “(sa) civilité, (sa) justice, (sa) pieté, bref (sa) lumière” in the New World.31 He expresses a sense of urgency that those living in New France are in desperate need of Christian enlightenment from the French. To remain complacent is a source of shame, and to bring this enlightenment is an act of pity that the Amerindians themselves would welcome: “Aussi aiment-ils les François universellement, & ne desirent rien plus que de se conformer à nous en civilité, bonnes moeurs, & religion. Quoy donc, n’aurons-nous point de pitié d’eux, qui sont noz semblables?”32 Here, the French are not experts in cruelty, as they appear to be for Léry, but rather those who are in a position to offer salvation and guidance to the vengeful indigenous peoples. The Amerindians are not alone in being vengeful, perhaps, but only Christianity can ultimately resolve this issue: “La seule

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religion Chrétienne les peut faire venir à la raison, comme elle fait aucunement entre nous (je dy aucunement, pour ce que nous avons des hommes forts imparfaits aussi bien que les Sauvages).”33 Christianity is the key to leading even the most intransigent of people to forgiveness and peace. For Lescarbot, then, vengeance represents part of a larger problem of the absence of Christianity among the peoples of the New World. Thus, even as he borrows from Léry, Lescarbot distinguishes more clearly between the colonizer and the colonized. In so doing, he creates a justification of the French colonial project by citing native vengeance as a negative trait that the French do not fully share with the Amerindians, a trait that the French must eradicate through evangelization. The Amerindian refusal to forgive past offenses connects such behavior to a larger question of memory that was raised through royal attempts to make peace during the Wars. To enact vengeance is also to refuse to forgive the past, in defiance of what treaties like the Edict of Nantes were trying to encourage royal subjects to do. Writing as a Protestant during the Wars, Léry’s larger approach to memory insists on the living memory of internecine cruelty; his readers only need to look to the living witnesses around them to learn about the cruelties of the recent past: “il y a encores des milliers de personnes en vie qui tesmoigneront de ces choses non jamais auparavant ouïes entre peuples quels qu’ils soient, et les livres qui dès longtemps en sont jà imprimés en feront la foi à la postérité.”34 By citing eyewitnesses to the horrors of the Wars of Religion, the passage implies that the sheer number of witnesses alive – the “milliers de personnes en vie” – who can attest to these horrors, as well as the textual record of the wars, undermine any effort to move beyond such cruelties. In this sense, Léry’s presentation of remembrance of the wars anticipates the attempts made by Agrippa d’Aubigné, a fellow Protestant. Aubigné preserves horrors of the wars through the recollection of his eyewitness experiences, as Kathleen Long has in demonstrated in her study on Les Tragiques in this volume.35 In contrast, even when Lescarbot argues that Europeans have proven themselves to be as cruel as these New World peoples, he establishes a distance between this cruelty and the current reality of his readership. Lescarbot’s readers, like Léry’s, can find their own domestic examples of Christian cruelty; however, in a key departure from Léry, Lescarbot insists that such examples exist primarily in history books. Lescarbot argues that the Amerindians “ont plus d’humanité que beaucoup de Chrétiens lesquels depuis cent ans en diverses occurrences ont exercié sur les femmes & enfans des cruautés plus que brutales, dont les Histoires sont pleines.”36 By suggesting that his readers’ experiences of such cruelty are largely textual, Lescarbot also suggests that there is a lack of first-hand knowledge of the cruelties of the French Civil Wars. While this was

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clearly not the case in the first decade of the seventeenth century, such a move absolves his readers from the role they might have played in those wars, and it invests them with a mission that corresponds with his post-war context. The real offenses of the Wars – while not completely relegated to the realm of oubli that the Edict of Nantes prescribed – no longer exist in hearts and minds, and, by extension, no longer play a direct role in behaviors motivated by past offenses. With the conflicts and cruelties of the past sealed safely within history books, Lescarbot’s readers are no longer directly implicated in the wars that take place in those texts. They therefore have no reason to exact vengeance, a fact that further positions them to lead the Amerindians away from vengeance by introducing Christianity and leading through example. However, even with the Wars of Religion supposedly forgotten, Lescarbot’s idealized vision of French intervention in the New World faces obstacles that stem from the French colonizer’s inability to proctor peace among the colonized. As will become clear, whereas Jean de Léry explains how the bodies of the Protestant victims of Catholic cruelty become products to be bought and sold, Lescarbot will reveal, in spite of himself, how Amerindian bodies are destroyed by and for the sake of the profitable French arms trade. In this sense, Léry’s critique of French cruelty and venality continues to be relevant even in Lescarbot’s idealized golden-age territories of North America.

New World Warriors Bearing French Arms The nefarious impact of the French presence in the New World becomes obvious in the first publication that Lescarbot sent to press immediately upon his return from New France in 1607, a short heroic poem entitled La Défaite des Sauvages Armouchiquois par le Sagamos Membertou et ses alliez Sauvages. The poem’s title page announces its content: “Où se peuvent recognoistre les ruses de guerre desdits Sauvages, leurs actes funebres, les noms de plusieurs d’entre eux, & la maniere de guerir leurs blessez.”37 Initially presented as a sort of anthropological introduction to the Amerindians, the poem has a secondary set of goals suggested in the letter that accompanies it.38 The stated mission of the Défaite, according its 1607 dedication, is to convince the French to cultivate this land and to convert its indigenous peoples.39 According to Lescarbot, God has established his kingdom in the New World for a specific purpose: “Inviter les François à la cultiver, & par ce moyen amener à la bergerie de Jesus Christ tant de peuples qui restent encore sans police ny religion.”40 Thus, the epic poem is, in the words of Isabelle Lachance, a “exercice de propagande dans

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une forme épique.”41 Indeed, the fact that Lescarbot published the poem immediately upon his return suggests a sense of urgency with respect to the goals expressed in the poem’s paratext.42 At roughly thirty pages in length, the Défaite would not qualify as the “long poème” with which contemporaries like Du Bellay and Peletier du Mans sought to establish French cultural dominance over the Italians; it is rather best qualified, as Phillip John Usher has suggested, as an “épyllion.”43 Despite its shorter length, Bernard Emont and Paolo Carile have both noted that it corresponds to readerly expectations of the heroic mode.44 As a case in point, the poem’s opening verses borrow from the conventions of epic invocation: Je ne chante l’orgueil du geant Briarée Ni du fier Rodomont la fureur enivrée Du sang dont il a teint préque tout l’Univers Ni comme il a forcé les pivots des enfers. Je chante MEMBERTOU, & l’heureuse victoire Qui luy acquit naguere une immortelle gloire Quand il joncha de morts les champs Armouchiquois Pour venger la cause du peuple Souriquois.45

The invocation’s “Je ne chante / je chante” echoes the “arma virumque cano” of Virgil’s Aeneid; the promise to recount feats of war of Membertou reveals a conspicuous grounding in epic convention even as the author would seem to reject Homer, Virgil, and Ariosto in the first verses by refusing to sing of Briarée (from both the Iliad and the Aeneid) and Rodomont (from Orlando Furioso).46 By singing the unknown hero Membertou rather than a European protagonist, the poet follows in the footsteps of La Araucana, which also depicts indigenous peoples in the role of epic heroes. Yet, unlike in La Araucana, Lescarbot does not chronicle a colonial war between European and Amerindian forces; the war depicted here is part of a conflict between two rival peoples, the Armouchiquois and the Souriquois. Nonetheless, as will become clear, even when absent, the French remain at the center of the poem’s main conflict. As the invocation indicates, the story recounts the actions that the protagonist undertook “pour venger la cause du peuple Souriquois.” Vengeance thus serves as the raison d’être of the plot of the Défaite. The poem tells the story of a revival of “une antique discorde” between the Souriquois – allies of the French – and their rivals the Armouchiquois.47 The conflict is renewed when the Souriquois Panoniac mistakenly places his trust in a trade made with the duplicitous Armouchiquois. He approaches the Armouchiquois, hoping to “troquer des marchandises qu’il avoit receu desdits François.”48 The deal goes awry, with the Armouchiquois killing Panoniac outright and absconding with his French goods. In response, Membertou and his allies prepare for a war of vengeance. Membertou

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leads the way with an impassioned speech that has its desired effect of rallying his comrades into battle: “A ces mots un chacun au combat animé / Sent un feu de vengeance en son cœur allumé.”49 The Souriquois’ desire for vengeance allows Membertou to demonstrate his skills as a trickster. He feigns a willingness to proctor peace with his enemies, returning happily to his men to deliver the message “La farce s’en va faite.”50 Membertou and his allies then defeat the Armouchiquois through their own phony trade deal: they spread their wares – French muskets and trumpets – in front of the enemy, offering to exchange them for Armouchiquois goods. Then, with reinforcements, the Souriquois take back those objects and attack their enemies who have been taken off guard. As Usher has noted, such feigning and trickery connect Membertou to his epic predecessor, Odysseus.51 Yet, Membertou’s desire for vengeance also aligns him with epic protagonists like Achilles in the Iliad or Aeneas in the Aeneid. Indeed, the desire for vengeance is the point on which his ruse turns. In order to dupe his enemies, Membertou must pretend to have forgiven the earlier offences, asking to talk to enemies about peace in order to: “Aimablement / Vuider le different qui a si longuement / L’un & l’autre troublé & réduit en ruine / Tandis que l’appetit de vengeance les mine / Et leur mange le cœur.”52 Membertou’s cleverness thus includes using peace as a weapon, as a way to perpetuate and escalate conflict. Although he and his compatriots cannot forgive an offense, the only way to gain an advantage over enemies is to be able to convince them that the offense has been forgiven. The result of this type of action is to sow doubt about the effectiveness of attempts to create peace between the two groups, a fact that Lescarbot mentions early on in the poem: “Et si parfois entre eux se traite quelque paix, / Cette paix se peut dire attrappe-niais.”53 Indeed, this lack of trust and perpetual desire for vengeance renders peace between these two groups impossible. If peace is the ideal that the poet wishes to promote in his earlier work and in his vision of the French mission in the New World, the poem’s apology of Membertou severely undercuts that ideal. In several different ways, the Défaite underlines the inability of the French to resolve the issue of indigenous vengeance, in spite of the particular role that Lescarbot has granted them in this regard. In the Histoire de la Nouvelle-France, we learn that before the incident recounted in the poem, the leader of Lescarbot’s expedition, the Protestant Pierre Dugua de Monts, had managed to proctor peace between the Armouchiquois and the Souriquois: Il pacifia deux ou trois nations qui de tout temps se sont fait la guerre, sçavoir les Armouchiquois, & les Souriquois, avec les Etchemins allies d’iceux Souriquois, leur

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declarant que quiconque commenceroit la guerre, ou en donneroit occasion, il luy seroit ennemy.54

Lachance has observed that Dugua served as an extension of Henri IV’s own peacemaking efforts, including the Peace of Vervins and the Edict of Nantes.55 Yet, this passage reveals, too, that the influence of the French is not entirely benevolent. Dugua’s pacification efforts are enforced through threats: those who are not with the French in their peace-building are against them and can expect to face a powerful enemy in the French. This menace, though vague, holds both military and economic implications. Furthermore, the Dugua’s role as peace-maker creates a dependence on future French intervention to keep the peace. As we learn in a subsequent episode, without Dugua’s presence to oversee this imposed peace, the tribes that have been pacified return to their previous behavior – the result of which is the story of the Défaite.56 Whereas peace can only be maintained through threats in the context of the Défaite, the other connection between the French and the Amerindians – trade – turns equally toxic. The poem makes it clear that the renewal of war comes at least in part because of the trading relationship established between the French and their new allies, Membertou’s Souriquois. The Armouchiquois are interested in getting their share of the rival group’s exchange with the French, first by stealing from Panoniac and then by agreeing to put aside old rivalries for a chance to trade with Membertou for French arms and clothing.57 The depth of the imbalance between the two groups – one backed by the French, the other rejected by them – becomes clear as the two sides head into battle. Although the Armouchiquois outnumber them, the Souriquois have a distinct advantage because they are closer the French (“plus voisins des François”). Instead of bone arrowheads, they use steel, which is more lethal to their enemies. Most importantly, the Souriquois ultimately win the battle thanks to the muskets that they acquired from the French. This new technology, obtained through trade, allows for a complete rout of the enemies; the battle ends with “L’Armouchiquois éteint, cette armée defaite” and with only one death on the protagonist’s side.58 It is thus due to their access to French technology that the Souriquois are able to defeat their rivals and prove themselves deserving protagonists of an epic poem. 59 In these passages, French influence and technology lead to the efficient auto-extermination of the Amerindians. These episodes demonstrate that in New France, in spite of the peaceful approach to colonialism lauded by Lescarbot, these peoples exact vengeance more efficaciously because of their access to French technology. Even as Lecarbot encourages his French compatriots to come to the New World to bring about an agrarian golden age, he

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records how their presence contributes to mercantile economy and a new iron age. In his Muses de la Nouvelle-France, Lescarbot insists, in the most paternalistic of terms, that French aid is needed to guide New World peoples to cultivate their land: “Seulement il demande un pere qui l’enseigne / A cultiver la terre, à façonner la vigne, / A vivre par police, à estre menager, / Et souz des fermes toicts ci-apres heberger.”60 Yet Lescarbot indicates elsewhere that it is ultimately the fault of Europeans that this practice of farming has been lost. He notes that, whereas the peoples of New France once spent their time on cultivation, they abandoned this practice in favor of the fur trade after the arrival of the Europeans: Ceux de Canada & Hochelaga au temps de Jacques Quartier labouroient tout de meme, & la terre leur rapportoit du blé, des ves, des pois, melons, courges, & concombres, mais depuis qu’on est allé rechercher leurs pelleteries, & que pour icelles ils ont eu de cela sans autre peine, ilz sont devenuz paresseux, commes aussi les Souriquois, lesquelz s’addonoient au labourage au meme temps.61

The lure of trade has drawn the indigenous populations – notably the Souriquois who are the protagonists of the Défaite – away from the cultivation of their own lands and toward the trade that has encouraged the devastation chronicled in the poem. And if Lescarbot hopes that the French “fathers” will bring back a tradition of cultivating the land, he overlooks the fact that the leader of his own expedition, Pierre Dugua de Monts, seemed more interested in the advantageous trade monopoly he possessed in the New World than in other parts of his mission. Indeed, Dugua’s return to France, the return that led to the renewal of war between the Armouchiquois and the Souriquois, was motivated by his desire to protect the fur trade monopoly that funded his expedition in Canada.62 As a result of this new economic landscape created by the French, the only cultivation that Membertou and his men do is metaphorical. With their guns, they mow down enemies: “L’ennemi fut fauché comme l’herbe des champs.”63 The poem attests to the fact that the vengeance that Lescarbot critiques continues with ever more dramatic results precisely because of French aid. In this sense, the war recounted within the poem records a moment of failure in a larger mission of the French in North America; it ultimately demonstrates the ways that the French – in spite of their efforts to impose their exported peace – are largely responsible for the breakdown of societies in the New World. Indeed, it could be argued that the word Défaite in the poem’s title extends beyond the defeat of Armouchiquois. The Souriquois may win the battle, but both sides are ultimately defeated as European technology allows for an amplification of native vengeance.

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Many years before his writings on the New World, Lescarbot made his literary début with the 1598 Harangue d’action de graces pour la Paix Prononcée en la ville de Vervin. In the collection of speeches and poems, Lescarbot describes peace as a return of the golden age that will bring an end to the conditions of war. Having lived all of his life in the shadow of war (at least, at the moment of the Harangue’s composition), the younger Lescarbot characterizes the effects of war by “la fureur, la rigueur, le foudroyant tonnerre” of artillery, “maints assauts, maintes tristes alarmes,” and “deuil, de soupirs, & de larmes.”64 Fields have been left “sans labourage, hideusement herissez de chardons & espines.”65 While Lescarbot describes the end of the Wars of Religion as the end of such horrors, his later advocacy for the French presence in New France brings more of the same: the Défaite records how that same “tonnerre” of firearms rings on the fields near Port Royal.66 If his Histoire de la Nouvelle-France would seemingly promote the French as peacemakers, his epyllion enacts instead the return of his previous descriptors of war. Lescarbot encourages the post-war French to spread the kind of peace that he believes they achieved to end the Wars of Religion. However, the French presence in the New World leads the Amerindians down a different path, not to peace but to endless war, not to an agrarian society but to profit-driven, unsustainable trade. These mechanisms of war are, unfortunately, the most successful export of the French in the story of the Défaite. This volume attests to the fact that polemic, in its many forms, incites war on the battlefield and in print. As Natalia Wawrzyniak has noted, such texts seek to put the enemy to death, sometimes symbolically and sometimes literally, and, although they may prolong and perpetuate war, these texts also envision their own ultimate endgame as peace – even if that peace is obtained through violence.67 Within this cycle of war and peace sustained by polemic, Lescarbot’s attempts to redefine Frenchness and to find common ground through a colonial project demonstrate that to build true peace in the aftermath of war, finding the right words is easier said than done.

Endnotes 1. 2.

See Christopher M. Flood in this volume, “Forging Satire from Scripture: Biblical Models and Verbal Violence before the Wars of Religion,” p. 11. Marcel Trudel, Les vaines tentatives (1524–1603), vol. 1 of Histoire de la Nouvelle-France (Montreal: Fides, 1963), p. 227. Trudel observes that “A partir de 1603, il s’établit chez les rois de France une tradition désormais constante, non plus occasionnelle, de politique coloniale” (From 1603 on, a constant and no longer sporadic colonial policy was established by the kings of France). Histoire, p. 252. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine.

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4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

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Eric Thierry, Marc Lescarbot (vers 1570–1641): Un homme de plume au service de la Nouvelle-France (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2001), pp. 52–53; Jean-François Labourdette, “L’Importance du traité de Vervins,” in Le traité de Vervins, ed. Jean-François Labourdette, Jean-Pierre Poussou, and Marie-Catherine Vignal (Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2000), pp. 15–26. A native of Vervins, Lescarbot wrote a speech and poems praising the Cardinal Alexandre de Medici (the future pope Leo XI), Pomponne de Bellièvre, and Nicolas Brulart de Sillery, all of whom had been involved in negotiations of the Treaty of Vervins in his Harangue d’action de grâces pour la Paix Prononcée en la ville de Vervin le dernier jour de May, 1598, pardevant le Tres-illustre et Tres-reverend Cardinal de Florence, Leget de nostre S. Pere en France (Paris: Federic Morel, 1598). Thierry, “La paix de Vervins et les ambitions françaises en Amérique,” in Le traité de Vervins, edited by Labourdette, Poussou, and Vignal, pp. 384–89; Labourdette, “L’importance du traité de Vervins,” pp. 25–26. For an overview of the edicts of pacification and their focus on local communities, see Penny Roberts, Peace and Authority during the French Religious Wars (1560–1600) (Baskingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 29–50. On the policies of oubliance and their lineage in peace edicts, see Andrea Frisch, Forgetting Differences: Tragedy, Historiography, and the French Wars of Religion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), pp. 35–41. See also Kathleen Perry Long’s contribution to this volume, “Violent Words for Violent Times: Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques,” p. 102. “That the memory of all things that have occurred on either side. . .will remain extinguished and dormant as if they never happened.” “Édit de Nantes, Édit général,” Éditions en ligne de l’École des chartres, http://elec.enc.sorbonne.fr/editsdepacification/ edit_12. “The disagreements about religion and the troubles that came after, we French were so busy in those conflicts, that, with such division everywhere, it was quite hard to look elsewhere.” Marc Lescarbot, Histoire de la Nouvelle-France (Paris: Jean Milot, 1609), p. 12. Subsequent references to this work will be indicated by HNF. “We are no longer in the time of leagues and factiousness. No one will attack our king, and none will undertake risky deeds for little reward. And when someone would want to do that, I think we have already thought of remedies. And then, this act is about religion, and not to steal from others. This being so, Faith pushes this endeavor forward with its head held high and will surmount all difficulties.” HNF, p. 859. Carla Zecher has aptly described the work as “an early example of what would soon become the standard French colonial handbook for the Americas: a work in two or three volumes, one devoted to the author’s personal travel narrative, the other(s) presenting an ethnography and/or a natural history.” See Zecher, “Marc Lescarbot Reads Jacques Cartier: Colonial History in the Service of Propaganda,” L’Esprit Créateur 48, no. 1 (Spring 2008), p. 107. “But in New France one must bring back the golden age, one must renew the ancient crowns of grains of wheat and make the first glory what the Ancient Romans called Gloria adorea, glory of wheat, in order to invite each person to cultivate his field well.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 933. “An intellectual haunted by the civil wars, obsessed by the return of peace.” Thierry, Un homme de plume, p. 13. For a valuable analysis of the HNF, see Thierry, Un homme de plume.

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15.

16.

17.

18.

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Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage was first published in 1578; Thevet’s Singularitez de la France antarctique appeared in 1557. “One point makes their virtue of strength and courage imperfect: that they are too vindictive, and they put their greatest contentment in that, and it descends into brutality.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 800. “Our savages don’t have their wars based on the possession of land. We don’t see them attack each other for that reason. They have enough land for living and for moving about. Their ambition is limited to their borders. They make war in the way that Alexander the Great did, in order to say, I beat you: or for vindication in remembrance of some affront they received, which is the greatest vice I find in them because they never forget an affront: in which they can be excused since they don’t do anything that we don’t do just as well. They follow nature: and if we have quelled something of that instinct, it’s God’s commandment that makes us do that to which others turn a blind eye.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 860. Emphasis mine. “Almost obsessive.” Marie-Christine Pioffet, “Marc Lescarbot et la littérature géographique de la Renaissance,” XVIIe siècle 56, no. 1 (2004), p. 98. Pioffet pursues this point by comparing the ethnography of Léry and Lescarbot (pp. 98–99). “But these barbarians do not wage war to win countries and lands from each other, for each has more than he needs; even less do the conquerors aim to get rich from the spoils, ransoms, and arms of the vanquished: that is not what drives them. For, as they themselves confess, they are impelled by no other passion than that of avenging, each for his side, his own kinsmen and friends who in the past have been seized and eaten.” Jean de Léry, Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Brésil, ed. Frank Lestringant (N.p.: Les héritiers de Eustache Vignon, 1594), p. 135. Translation from History of a voyage to the Land of Brazil, trans. Janet Whatley (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), p. 112. Emphasis mine. This connection is central in more than one text written about the New World: “It is clear that vengeance is the hermeneutic key for the missionary writers in understanding the meaning of the cannibal act, such that description of the careful distribution of the victim’s body parts among allies and affines, as well as the embedding of the ritual in myth, becomes central to these later works.” Neil Whitehead, “Historical Writing about Brazil, 1500–1800,” p. 647. “The tableau of that ritual cuisine and that of the horrors committed in France, where it happened that a perverse vengeance led to the crime of cannibalism.” Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, Author’s Introduction, p. 10. “Par quoi qu’on n’abhorre plus tant désormais la cruauté des sauvages Anthropophages, c’est-à-dire, mangeurs d’hommes, car puisqu’il y en a de tels, voire d’autant plus détestables & pires au milieu de nous, qu’eux qui, comme il a été vu, ne se ruent que sur les nations lesquelles leur sont ennemies, & ceux-ci se sont plongés au sang de leurs parents, voisins & compatriotes, il ne faut pas aller si loin qu’en leur pays ni qu’en l’Amérique pour voir choses si monstrueuses et prodigieuses.” (So let us henceforth no longer abhor so very greatly the cruelty of the anthropophagous – that is, man-eating – savages. For since there are some here in our midst even worse and more detestable than those who, as we have seen, attack only enemy nations, while the ones over here have plunged into the blood of their kinsmen, neighbors, and compatriots, one need not go beyond one’s own country, nor as far as America, to see such monstrous and

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23.

24.

25.

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27. 28.

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prodigious things.) Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, p. 150; History of a voyage, trans. Whatley, p. 133. “Suçant le sang et la moelle, et par conséquent mangeant tout en vie tant de veuves, orphelins et autres pauvres personnes” (Sucking blood and marrow, and eating everyone alive, widows, orphans, and other poor people). Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, p. 149; History of a voyage, trans. Whatley, p. 132. In her analysis of this passage, Cathy Yandell notes that the word “reellement” relates to contemporary debates about the Eucharist. She argues that Léry, a Protestant, tries to connect all Catholics to cannibals since they believe in the “présence réelle” of Christ’s body at the moment of communion. See Yandell, “Cannibalism and Cognition in Jean de Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-Century France, ed. David P. LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 195–96. “The fat of human bodies (which, in a way more barbarous than that of the savages, were butchered at Lyon after being pulled out of the Saône) – was it not publicly sold to the highest bidder?” Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, p. 150; History of a voyage, trans. Whatley, p. 132. I cite the 1594 edition here. The 1599 edition offers much longer and far more graphic descriptions of Catholic cruelty to Protestants during the Wars. Scott Juall explores these descriptions in his article “‘Beaucoup plus barbares que les Sauvages mesmes’: Cannibalism, Savagery, and Religious Alterity in Jean de Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage faict en la terre du Brésil (1599–1600),” L’Esprit Créateur 8, no. 1 (2008), pp. 58–71. “A certain Cœur de Roy, who professed the Reformed Faith in the city of Auxerre was horribly massacred, and those who committed this murder, did they not cut his heart to pieces, display it for sale to those who hated him, and finally, after grilling it over coals–glutting their rage like mastiffs – eat of it?” Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, p. 150; History of a voyage, trans. Whatley, p. 132. This incident is also recounted in Lancelot Voisin de la Popelinière, La vraie et entière histoire des troubles et choses mémorables advenues tant en France qu’en Flandre & pays circonvoisins, depuis l’an 1562 (N.p.: n.p., 1573), p. 214r. This mistreatment of the “coeur de roi” is all the more poignant given the development of the practice of using cardiotaphs (heart tombs) for kings and other nobles at the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth centuries. Enshrining and embalming the king’s heart emphasized the continuity of royal power after a king’s death. For more on this practice, see Christian Régnier, “The Hearts of the Kings of France: ‘Cordial Immortality,’” Medicographia 31 (2009), pp. 430–39. “As with Montaigne, this roundabout turn through others allows one to know oneself better. But the last look, the look that comes back around is without any kindness or particular tenderness.” Frank Lestringant, Jean de Léry ou l’invention du sauvage, 3rd ed., (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2016), p. 96. David Quint, “A Reconsideration of Montaigne’s Des Cannibales,” Modern Language Quarterly 51, no. 4 (1900), pp. 459–90. That is not to say that Lescarbot never points out the cruelty of the peoples of New France. He describes how the peoples of New France cut off their enemies’ heads and dry their skins to hang as trophies. On feast days, they take out the skins and dance with them, “pendus au col, ou au bras, ou à la ceinture & de rage quelquefois mordent dedans: qui est un grand temoignage de ce desordonné appetit de vengeance” (hanging from the neck or arm, or at the waist, and out of anger sometimes bite them: which is

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30. 31. 32.

33.

34.

35. 36.

37.

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40.

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a testament to this uncontrollable appetite for vengeance). Lescarbot, HNF, p. 869. These instances of violence are directly attributed to vengeance. “At least you can find this praiseworthy thing in them, that they are not anthropophagic like the Scythes once were and as many other nations on this side of the world: & as the Brazilians, Cannibals, and others in the New World.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 756. “They do nothing that we don’t do just as well.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 860. “(Its) civility, (its) justice, (its) piety, in short, its light.” Lescarbot, HNF, preface. “They also love the French universally, and desire nothing more than to be like us in civility, good morals, and religion. What then, will we not have pity on those who are our fellow men?” Lescarbot, HNF, “À la France,” n.p. “Only the Christian religion can make them turn to reason, as it has done with most of us (I say most since we have some very imperfect men as the Savages do).” Lescarbot, HNF, pp. 800–01. “There are thousands alive today who beheld these things never before heard of among people anywhere, and the books about them, printed long since, will bear witness for posterity.” Léry, Histoire d’un voyage, p. 150; History of a voyage, trans. Whatley, p. 132. Long, “Violent Words,” pp. 101–17. “Have more humanity than a lot of Christians who for 100 years in many instances enacted on women and children cruelties much more brutal, which fill the history books.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 870. “Where one can learn the ruses of war of said Savages, their funerary rites, the names of many of them, and the manner they heal their wounded.” Marc Lescarbot, La défaite des sauvages armouchiquois par le Sagamos Membertou et ses alliez sauvages: En la Nouvelle France, au mois de juillet dernier 1607, où se peuvent recognoistre les ruses de guerre desdits sauvages, leurs actes funèbres (Paris: J. Perier, 1607), title page. On this aspect, see also Paolo Carile, “Tradition classique et exotisme ethnographique dans La Defaite des sauvages armouchiquois de Marc Lescarbot,” in La France-Amérique (XVIe – XVIIIe siècles): Actes du XXXVe colloque international d’études humanistes, ed. Frank Lestringant (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1998), p. 142; Carile, Lo Sguardo impedito: studi sulle relazioni di viaggio in “Nouvelle-France” e sulla letteratura populare (Fasano: Schena, 1987), pp. 98–104. Eric Thierry argues that the poem has the intention of showing that “les indigènes de Port-Royal et leurs alliés sont capables de grandes actions, qu’ils peuvent se comporter comme des Européens et qu’un plain-pied peut être établi entre eux” (the indigenous peoples of Port-Royal and their allies are capable of great actions, that they can behave like Europeans and that both groups can exist at the same level). See his La France de Henri IV en Amérique du Nord (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2008), p. 275. “To invite the French to cultivate it, & by that means to bring to the fold of Jesus Christ so many people who still remain without government or religion.” Lescarbot, Défaite, n.p. “An exercise in propaganda in epic form.” Isabelle Lachance, “Guerre, lettres de devenir historique de la Nouvelle-France dans La défaite des sauvages armouchiquois de Marc Lescarbot,” Tangence 111 (2016), p. 136. Usher suggests that the poem’s initial publication would have played the role of a travel account given that it existed before Lescarbot’s other accounts of the voyage to the New World did (Phillip John Usher, “Du viatique à l’épique: L’épyllion américain de Marc Lescarbot,” Arborescences: revue d’études françaises, no. 2 (May 2012), p. 7). The poem

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46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

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was integrated in the Muses de la Nouvelle-France in 1610. For details on the poem’s publication history, see Bernard Emont, Les Muses de la Nouvelle France de Marc Lescarbot (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2004), p. 13 and Carile, “Tradition classique,” p. 142. For more on the complementarity of the Histoire de la Nouvelle-France and Lescarbot’s poetry (especially the Muses de la Nouvelle-France), see Usher, “Du viatique,” pp. 4–5. Usher, “Du viatique,” p. 5. Emont, Les Muses, p. 52; Carile, “Tradition classique,” pp. 401–03. “I do not sing the pride of the giant Briareus Nor the drunk fury of Rodomonte proud Of the blood with which he stained almost the whole Universe Nor how he forced open the pivots of Hell. I sing MEMBERTOU, and the fortunate victory That once granted him immortal glory When he strewed the Armouchiquois fields with dead To avenge the cause of the Souriquois.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 4r. On this relationship to epic models, see Usher, “Du viatique,” p. 7. Usher argues that Lescarbot rejects epic predecessors in favor of the real experiences he had in the New World. “An ancient disagreement.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 4r. “To trade merchandise that he had received from those Frenchmen.” Lescarbot, Défaite, preface, n.p. “At those words each person was moved to combat / Feeling a fire of vengeance enflame his heart.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 6v. “The farce is on.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 7v. Usher, “Du viatique,” p. 7. “In a friendly manner / to end the conflict that had so long / Troubled and reduced to ruin the other / While the appetite of vengeance consumes them / And eats their heart.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 7v. “And if sometimes between them there is talk of a peace treaty / that peace can be called a bluff.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 4r. “He pacified two or three nations that had been at war forever, that is to say, the Armouchiquois, and the Souriquois, with the Etchemins, allies of said Souriquois, declaring to them that whoever began a war or created a cause for it, would be his enemy.” Lescarbot, Défaite, preface. Lachance, “Guerre,” p. 137. Lachance, “Guerre,” p. 137. See especially, Lescarbot, Défaite pp. 7v and 8v. “The Armouchiquois extinguished, that army defeated.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 12r. In a different reading of this passage, Carile suggests that the French arms, with their capacity to alter the course of battle, inherit the role of gods and goddesses in GrecoRoman epics. He notes that the expression of French technological superiority in this passage implies a more general sense of European superiority that is atypical of Lescarbot’s anthropological stance. See Carile, “Tradition classique,” p. 402. “[The Amerindian] asks only for a father to teach him To cultivate the land, to fashion the vine, To live by government, to be a laborer,

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62.

63. 64.

65. 66. 67.

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And thereafter to be housed under solid roofs.” Lescarbot, Muses de la Nouvelle-France, p. 37. The Muses de la Nouvelle-France first appeared at the end of the 1609 edition of the HNF. “In the time of Jacques Cartier, those in Canada and Hochelage did the same, and their land produced wheat, ves, peas, melons, squash, cucumbers, but since we came looking for their furs, and for those they get that without other labor, they have become lazy, like the Souriquois who too devoted themselves to labor in that same period.” Lescarbot, HNF, p. 846. George MacBeath, “Du Gua de Monts, Pierre,” in Dictionary of Canadian Biography. Vol. 1, 1000 to 1700, rev. ed., edited by George Williams Brown, Marcel Trudel, and André Vachon (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, Les Presses de l’université Laval, 1979), n.p. “The enemy was cut down like grass in the field.” Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 11v. “The fury, the rigor, the awesome thunder”; “many assaults, many sad alarms”; “mourning, sighs and tears.” Marc Lescarbot, Harangue d’action de grâces pour la Paix Prononcée en la ville Vervin le dernier jour de May, 1598, pardevant le Tres-illustre et Tresreverend Cardinal de Florence, Leget de nostre S. Pere en France (Paris: Federic Morel, 1598), p. 33. “Without labor, hideously bristling with thistles and thorns.” Lescarbot, Harangue, p. 15. Lescarbot, Défaite, p. 11v. Natalia Wawrzyniak, Littérature et polémique au temps des Guerres de Religion (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2017), p. 22.

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List of Contributors Brooke Di Lauro obtained her PhD from Yale University in 2006 and is an Associate Professor of French at the University of Mary Washington. Her specialty is Renaissance poetry, in particular the work of Maurice Scève, but Dr. Di Lauro is also interested in the interconnections between literature and the visual arts and has published two articles on the relationship between the poems and emblems of Scève’s Délie. Her article on the role of memory and memorial in the Délie appeared in spring 2016 in a collected volume entitled Memory and Community in Sixteenth-Century France and she contributed to a festschrift in honor of Ned Duval that appeared in Yale French Studies in August 2018. Christopher M. Flood is an assistant professor of French at Brigham Young University. His research focuses primarily on French and Swiss literature of crisis in the late Middle Ages, Renaissance, and Protestant Reformation. In particular, he studies the social functions and history of polemics, satire, and comedy in the political and ecclesiastical conflicts of those periods. His other areas of research include musicology and the history of ideas and technology. Amy Graves Monroe is Associate Professor of French in the Romance Languages and Literatures Department at the University at Buffalo. Her book Post tenebras lex: preuves et propagande dans l’historiographie engagée de Simon Goulart (Geneva: Droz, 2012) explores how religious propaganda and pamphlet literature map onto questions of testimony, current events, documentary proof, and historiography during the French Wars of Religion. Her work bridges intellectual history and material culture by reading ideas through things. She has worked on the Reformation(s) in the early modern period, print culture and ephemera, political thought and sovereignty, Montaigne, early modern sensory perception and affect, martyrs, neo-stoicism and satire. In 2017 she was awarded the SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Teaching. Her current project studies the early modern perception of the “event” as a “happening” and traces the idea of the occurrence as it evolves toward the threshold of modernity. Marcus Keller, Associate Professor of French at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, focuses in his research on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century French literature and culture. He is the author of Figurations of France: Literary Nation-Building in Times of Crisis, 1550–1650 (2011) and the editor of The Turk of Early Modern France (L’Esprit créateur, 2013) and the Dialectics of Orientalism in Early Modern Europe (2018). Jeff Kendrick is Associate Professor of French at Virginia Military Institute. His past work has appeared in Renaissance and Reformation, Women in French Studies, and L’Esprit créateur, where he looks at issues of gender in the period leading up to the French Wars of Religion, especially in the devotional writings of Marguerite de Navarre. More recently, he has begun studying the role of provincial parliamentary remonstrances in shaping royal policies of tolerance or repression during the Wars. Kathleen Long is Professor of French at Cornell University, and the author of Another Reality: Metamorphosis and the Imagination in the Work of Ovid, Petrarch, and Ronsard (Lang, 1990) and https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-013

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Hermaphrodites in Renaissance Europe (Ashgate, 2006) and editor of High Anxiety: Masculinity in Crisis in Early Modern France (Truman State University, 2002), Religious Differences in France: Past and Present (Truman State University, 2006), and Gender and Scientific Discourse in Early Modern Europe (Routledge, 2010), as well as numerous articles on religious violence in the works of Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné and on representations of monstrosity in early modern European culture. She is completing a project on the major works of Agrippa d’Aubigné, translating the satirical novel L’Isle des hermaphrodites, and working on a project linking modern discourses on disability with early modern representations of the monstrous. Katherine S. Maynard is Professor of French and Director of the Cromwell Center of Teaching and Learning at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland. Her work, which has appeared in journals such as French Studies, Romanic Review, and Renaissance and Reformation, focuses on poetic responses to the French Wars of Religion, in particular in epic poetry. Her recent book, Reveries of Community: Epic in the Age of Henri IV, was published as part of the Rethinking the Early Modern Series at Northwestern University Press in 2017. Charles-Louis Morand-Métivier is Associate Professor of French at the University of Vermont. His research focuses on the emotions of war, nation, and kingship in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. He has published on Christine de Pizan, Philippe de Mézières, Pierre de Ronsard and du Bellay, and French theatre. He is the coeditor of Affective and Emotional Economies in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, with Andreea Marculescu (Palgrave Studies in the History of Emotions, 2018) and the author of Dramatizing the Martyrdom of the Waldensians in Lubéron. The Tragedy of the Sack of Cabrières. A Critical Edition and Translation in Prose (under contract, The Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies). Phillip John Usher is Associate Professor of French Literature, Thought, and Culture, and of Comparative Literature at New York University. His current research is situated at the crossroads of early modern studies and contemporary theory, with a particular emphasis on ecology. He is the author, translator, or (co-)editor of seven volumes, including most recently L’aède et le géographe (Classiques Garner, 2018). Most of his current work takes place in an intellectual sandbox he calls the Humanist Anthropocene, a term whose backstory he explores in “Untranslating the Anthropocene” in Diacritics 44:3 (2016), pp. 56–77. His next book is Exterranean: Ecologies of Extraction in the Humanist Anthropocene (Fordham University Press, 2019). Ashley Marie Voeks earned a Ph.D. in French Studies at the University of Texas at Austin. Her research examines 16th-century French literature, rhetoric and poetics, and early modern martyrological writing. Her dissertation is an interdisciplinary study of religious identity as expressed in martyrologies, travel literature, poetry, and theatrical works from the mid-16th through the early 17th centuries. She is also the author of several articles, including “Performing Vengeance in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Les Tragiques,” which appears in Explorations in Renaissance Culture (2017), as well as a translation with Cambridge University Press. At the University of Texas, she teaches beginning to intermediate French language courses and early modern French literature.

Polemic and Literature index Alciato, Andrea 93 Amboise conspiracy 1 Amerindian populations 7, 156, 173–83; Tupinamba people 174–76 Aneau, Barthélemy 93 anonymity. See pseudoanonymity Apian, Peter 157 Apter, Emily 167n17 Ariosto, Ludovico 179 Aristotle: on earthquakes 155–56; on epics 124; on imitation 33; on tragedy 123, 125 atmoterrorism 7, 152–56, 160, 165–66 Aubert, Pierre 65n5 Aubigné, Agrippa d’ 5–6, 35, 85n48, 95, 101–13, 118–26, 130–43; polemical style of 9n7, 101; pseudonym of 64 WORKS: Confession Catholique du Sieur de Sancy 64 Histoire universelle 6, 101, 104, 105, 106–7, 109, 111, 112–13; Bégat in 74; style in 6, 106 Les Tragiques 5–6, 101–13, 118–26, 177; genre of 6, 103, 105, 112, 123–26, 128n24; “La Chambre dorée” episode in 6–7, 130–43; martial imagery in 91; models for 101, 112, 118, 124; style in 101–3, 105–12, 122–23, 128n24, 141–42 Badius, Josse 13 Baïf, Jean-Antoine de 89 Bailbé, Jacques 103 Bakhtin, Mikhail 33 Baranova, Tatiana Debbagi 8 Barker, Sara 1, 28, 29–31, 39 Battle of Ypres 152, 154, 157, 161, 166 Beam, Sara 13 Beaux-Amis, Thomas 82 Bégat, Jean Angeau 5, 69, 74–81; audience for 83n22; date of 83n24 bella grammaticalia tradition 86, 87 Benedicti, Jean 9n7 Bersuire, Pierre 93 https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501513510-014

Bèze, Théodore de 4, 11, 14–19, 20, 22–23, 43n6, 65n4, 80; as the “Protestant Ronsard,” 39, 46n33; RonsardChandieu quarrel and 36, 39, 40–42; title page for 52–54 Bible: David story in 14–15, 17–19, 22, 25n18; Judith story in 14, 21–23, 27n53; justification for persecution in 4, 23–24; satire in 3–4, 10–14, 17; title page quotations from 4, 54, 57–62 Bichon, Guillaume 57 Bizer, Marc 77, 83n24 Bogel, Frederic L. 13 Boucher, Jean 62, 63 Bourg, Anne du 69, 71 Brès, Guy de 65 Calvin, John 14–15, 16, 23, 40, 65n4; David story and 25n18; title page of 60–61 cannibalism 175–76 Carile, Paolo 179, 188n59 Carruthers, Mary 144n8 Cassin, Barbara 167n17 Cathelan, Antoine 19 Catherine de Medici 43n6, 69, 70 Catullus, Gaius Valerius 15, 16, 25n19 Céard, Jean 118, 126n4 Celtus, Stephanus Junius Brutus 62 Chandieu, Antoine de La Roche- 4–5, 28–34, 37–43, 44n20, 65n4 Charbonnier, François 86, 95 Charles IX 29, 43n6, 54, 71, 73 Charles de Bourbon 57 Chastel, Jehan 62, 63 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 25n19, 33 climate change 7, 165–66, 170n53 Cochlaeus, Johannes 15 Coligny, Gaspard de 34 Colloquium of Poissy 40–41, 43n6 Condé, Louis de 43n6 Conley, Tom 143 Cornilliat, François 86–87, 92 Cosmopolite, Eusebe Philadelphe 62 Crespin, Jean 49, 54, 104

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Cromé, François 64 cultural imperialism 5, 86, 87 Curione, Celio Secondo 26n43 Dante Alighieri 106 Daubresse, Sylvie 69, 132–33 Denizot, Véronique 92 des Autels, Guillaume 1, 2, 8n2, 38–39 Désiré, Artus 19–20, 23, 26n41, 80 des Masures, Louis 45n21 Desportes, Philippe 89 Diefendorf, Barbara B. 103 Dorléans, Louis 55, 57, 58 Dryden, John 10 Du Bellay, Joachim 5, 15, 86–88, 179; satire and 12, 13; war imagery in 15, 86–88, 89 WORKS: Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse 5, 86–87, 90, 91–92, 93, 94–95, L’Olive 87–89, 94 Dufour, Alain 15 Dugua de Monts, Pierre 180–81, 182 earthquakes 155–57, 160 Edict of Àles 105 Edict of Amboise 5, 29, 70–71, 74, 79, 102 Edict of Beaulieu 102 Edict of Bergerac 102 Edict of Boulogne 102 Edict of January 5, 29, 43n6, 70, 72, 74, 83n24 Edict of Nantes 7, 29, 102, 104–5, 172, 177–78, 181 Edict of Saint-Germain-en-Laye 79, 102, 104 Elizabeth I 142 Emont, Bernard 179 epic genre 7, 101; Aristotle on 124; atmosphere in 160–65; Aubigné and 6, 101, 112, 123–24; Lescarbot and 179; violence in 101, 105, 112 Erasmus, Desiderius 13 Ercilla, Alonso de 179 Fanlo, Jean-Raymond 103, 128n25, 130 Felman, Shoshana 3, 8

Flood, Christopher 80 Francis II 1, 69 French arms trade 173, 180, 181–83 French Wars of Religion: aftermath of 172–73, 177–78, 183; challenges to king’s authority during 69–81; as civil war 6, 118–26; origins of 1, 29; violence of 28, 42, 102–3, 112, 177, 183 Frisch, Andrea 102, 129n32, 131 Gallic Hercules tradition 86, 92–95, 99n47 genres for royal questioning 71–72 Gérard, Jean 60 Giordano, Michael 97n16 Goulart, Simon 54, 65n5, 104 Goya, Francisco 160 Grands signes merveilleux, Les (anon.) 157–58, 168n31 guerre de religion term 118 Guise family 1, 29, 33, 79, 85n48 Hallowell, Robert E. 93–94 Hanley, Sarah 146n30 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 167n11 Henri II 69 Henri III 57, 79, 94 Henri IV 12, 29, 57, 59, 62, 79–80, 85n48, 172, 181 Hercule amoureux (Renaissance topos) 92, 93, 94 Héret, Mathurin 156 Highet, Gilbert 10 Hippocrates 154 Hoffman, George 3 Holt, Mack P. 69–70 Homer 77–78, 92, 124, 179, 180 Horace 11–12, 90 Hotman, François 62 Humanist Anthropocene term 153, 165, 167n8 imitation theory 33–34 intertextuality 34, 42 Jeanneret, Michel 131

Polemic and Literature index

Keller, Marcus 35 Kitch, Aaron 167n10 Kristeva, Julia 33–34

Montaigne, Michel de 126, 175–76 Monter, William 133 Murdock, Graeme 24

Lachance, Isabelle 178–79 Lander, Jesse 2 Laon, Jean de 54 Léry, Jean de 174–78 Lescarbot, Marc 7, 172–83; WORKS: Harangue d’action de graces pour la Paix Prononcée en la Ville de Vervin 183, 184n3 Histoire de la Nouvelle-France 173–78, 180, 183, 184n9 La Défaite des Sauvages Armouchiquois 173–74, 178–83, 187n42 Les Muses de la Nouvelle-France 182, 188n42 l’Estoile, Pierre de 49 Lestringant, Frank 129n30, 156, 175–76 Llewellyn, Kathleen M. 22 Long, Kathleen 8 Louis IX 145n16 Lucan 101, 112, 118, 124 Lucian 93, 99n47 Luria, Keith 150n74 Luther, Martin 15, 78 Lynch, Kevin 138

Nagel, Alan 92 Nash, Jerry 97n16 Nazarian, Cynthia 87–88, 92, 97n16

Malherbe, François de 95 Marcourt, Antoine 64 Marie de Médicis 104 Marot, Clément 15, 60 Martinez-Alfaro, Maria 33 Martial 15, 18 massacres: of the Innocents 111; Saint Bartholomew’s Day 54, 106, 147n40, 175; Tours 6, 101, 107–12, 117n24; Wassy 29, 43n6 Maynard, Katherine S. 127n19, 129n33 Melanchthon, Philip 15 Mellet, Paul-Alexis 71–74, 80 Membertou, Henri 179–82 Mesnard, Jean 2 Monmonier, Mark 139–40

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Olaus Magnus 168n22 Ovid 87, 101 Padrón, Ricardo 140 Panoniac 179, 181 paratextual elements: in Bèze 16; biblical citations 54, 57–62; indexes 49, 65n5; in Lescarbot 178–79; places of publication 4, 51, 52; title pages 4, 49–65 Parker, Charles H. 24 Parlement of Paris: Aubigné and 132–33, 145n15; Bégat and 69, 70, 73, 81 Paschoud, Adrien 80 pasquinade genre 20, 26n43 Passevent parisien respondent a Pasquin Rommain (anon.) 4, 11, 19–23 Pasquier, Nicolas 12–13 Peace of Cateau-Cambrésis 172 Peace of Vervins 172, 181 Peletier du Mans, Jacques 15, 179 Petrarch 5, 87, 88–89, 91, 93, 94, 97n20, 111 Philip II 142, 172 Pighius, Albert 60 Pillehotte, Jean 57 Pioffet, Marie-Christine 174 Plato 77 Pléiade writers 15, 39, 45n21, 93, 94 Pliny the Elder 156 polemic: Aubigné on 9n7; definition and etymology of 2–3, 9n7; functions of 2–4, 8, 65, 172; Ronsard’s use of 4; title pages and 62, 65 pseudoanonymity 4, 62–64 Ptolemy 157 Quint, David 142, 176 Quintilian, Marcus Fabius 33

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Rabelais, François 17, 64, 103 Racaut, Luc 8, 78 Raffini, Christine 97n16 remonstrance genre 5, 68n40, 69–81; defined 71–72; number of 82n19; short life of 82n15 Rigaud, Simon 55 Rigolot, François 44n11 Roelker, Nancy Lyman 69 Roman de la Rose, Le (Lorris and Meun) 93 Ronsard, Pierre de 1–2, 7; Bèze and 15; Chandieu quarrel with 4–5, 28–34, 37–43, 44n20; list of works by 31–32; on Protestants 37; role of 28, 34–35, 40; war imagery in 88, 92–95, 163–64, 165 WORKS: “Discours à Loys des Masures,” 34, 37–38, Discours sur les misères de ce temps 4–5, 28, 30, 34–35, 42, 92; Continuation du 34, 35 Elegie à des Autels 1–2, 35–36, 38–39, “Hylas,” 94 La Franciade 7, 35, 44n11, 92, 161, 163–64, 165, 169n42 Les Amours 92, 93 Odes 94 “Panégyrique de la renommé,” 94 “Response aux injuries,” 28, 38, 40–41, Remonstrance au peuple de France 36 Sonnets pour Hélène 92–93 Rouget, François 28, 33, 42 Sacrobosco, Johannes de 157 satire: in Bible 3–4, 10–14, 17; history and functions of 10, 11–14 Satyre menippée (Rapin, Passerta, et al.) 64 Scève, Maurice 5, 87–92, 94–95 Schoeffer, Peter 51 Scranton, Roy 152, 166 Sébillet, Thomas 87

Serres, Michel 152, 160 Severt, Jacques 55, 56 Shakespeare, William, The Merchant of Venice 154–55, 167n10 Shepardson, Nikki 69 Sloterdijk, Peter 152–55, 157, 165–66 Socrates 77 Sophocles 154 Speroni, Sperone 87 Stefanovska, Malina 80 Sutherland, Nicola Mary 70 Szabari, Antónia 13, 103 Tally, Robert 132 Thevet, André 7, 153, 155–58, 160 Thierry, Eric 173, 187n39 title pages. See paratextual elements Triumvirate 70, 81n7 Trudel, Marc 183 Turchetti, Mario 83n24 Usher, Phillip John 131, 144n7, 179, 180, 187n42 Valentinian 77 verbal aggression. See words as weapons Vergil, Polydore 155 Virgil 101, 124, 153, 160–64, 179, 180 Wallhausen, Jean-Jacques de 164–65 Wawrzyniak, Natalia 2, 7, 28, 183 White, Hayden 8 Wolmar, Melchoir 15 words as weapons 1, 8, 8n3, 23–24, 49, 55, 70, 74; in Aubigné 131; in Bible 12, 15, 18, 60, 62; martial imagery 5, 86–95; in Ronsard 163–64 Yandell, Cathy 186n22 Zecher, Carla 184n9